Filed to story: Kissing the Wrong Brother
He shifts my pink bag higher on his shoulder. “Where’s your room? I’ll take your bag.”
I take four steps backward. “Here.”
He rolls his eyes. “We’re next door to each other.”
“Yup. And Kylie’s bedroom is one more door that way, so if you try to sneak into her room, you’ll have to walk past mine, and I’ll know.”
“How will you know? I’m pretty sure you sleep like a log.”
I frown. How would he know that?
But it’s true. There’s no way I’d hear a grenade outside my room much less a late-night lothario out for an illicit hookup.
I push open the door to my room, and Miles follows me inside. “Thanks for carrying my bag, workhorse,” I say. I reach out to pat his biceps again, just on principle, but he’s onto me now and sidesteps.
“What’s that?” he asks.
“Hmm?” Damn, I’d almost gotten a glimpse of the tattoo.
He points toward my bed.
I turn and see the offending garment carefully laid across the yellow bedspread.
I sigh. “That, my new friend, is Walsh Fourth of July garb.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “It’s … small.”
“Tell me about it.”
For as long as I can remember, the younger Walsh females have thought it’s “fun” to wear matching red, white, and blue bikinis.
I have yet to partake.
Miles picks up the halter top. “I think I like the Walshs.”
“Don’t get too excited,” I mutter. “I’m not wearing that. Or, on second thought, do get excited, because Kylie will for sure be wearing that and only that all weekend.”
“Don’t tell me you’re one of those girls that doesn’t wear swimsuits in public,” he says.
Well, not if I can help it. But he looks grumpy, so I relent. “I own a swimsuit.”
“Sure, but did you bring it?”
Damn, he knows me well. How did that happen?
“Yes.” Reluctantly.
He sets his duffel bag on the ground by his feet and sits on my bed. “Let’s see it.”
“You want to see my bathing suit?”
He crosses his arms and waits.
“Fine,” I mutter, leaning down and unzipping my bag, rummaging around until I find the dreaded ensemble.
I hold up the sensible black Speedo one-piece. It’s one of those kinds with the “slimming technology” in the torso, which is really just a modern way of saying waterproof girdle.
And I will be wearing a cover-up that covers all of it, but I don’t tell Beefcake this.
“No,” he says.
“No what?”
“You’re not wearing that.”
“Um, actually-“
He stands, ripping the swimsuit from my hand and tossing it aside.
I watch as the enormous swatch of black shiny fabric settles in a puddle on the ground. “Rawr. That was sexy. Is that how you disrobe women, because-“
He points toward the bed. “You’re wearing that.”
I peer around him. “It’s a glorified pile of string.”
“I thought we were supposed to be working on your confidence.”
“Um, sure, confidence to wear skinny jeans, not a star-spangled G-string. Plus, my cousin Heather always buys mine too small. I think she doesn’t want to insult me by buying my real size, knowing that I’ll be mingling with a bunch of XS stick figures.”
He walks back to the bed and picks up the top in that reluctant way guys have with women’s clothing. “Medium.”
I hold up my hands, as though to say point proven. “I don’t wear a medium.”
Good on me for not cringing as I admitted it.
“Maybe you didn’t last summer.”
“Um, this summer is just like last summer. All the summers are the same, actually. Think of my summers as supersized, not medium.”
He shakes his head. “Last summer you hadn’t spent an entire month with a personal trainer.”
I roll my eyes. “Look, Beefcake, you’re good at your job, but you’re no miracle worker.”
“You’ve lost weight, Aria. You just don’t know it because I forbid the scale and because your clothes are all elastic, baggy, and terrible.”
I’m torn between wanting to defend my wardrobe and asking him to repeat that first bit. You’ve lost weight.
Was it true? My mom had made a couple comments to that effect, but, um, hello. It was my mom. Nothing mothers say about their daughters’ appearance, positive or negative, should be taken entirely seriously.
But the thing about Beefcake … he’s not really one for kindness. And he doesn’t lie.
Reluctantly I reach out and touch the bikini.
“It’s not going to be a pretty sight.”
He puts his hand over my mouth, taking a half step closer, and even though he’s pulled this move about a million times in our short acquaintance, I feel a weird little awareness at how close he’s standing.
Very slowly he removes his hand. His eyes locked on mine.
“Tomorrow,” he says gruffly. “For the Fourth. Wear it.”
I cross my arms. “So let’s say I play along, and figure out a way to get these tiny triangles to somewhat cover my boobs. You get eye candy. What do I get out of it?”
His eyes never leave mine. “I’ll help you get Ben.”
Miles’s POV
On a scale of awesome to I want to kill myself, the situation at the Walsh lake house isn’t nearly as bad as I’d been expecting.
Granted, it’s the day before the actual party, and the majority of party guests won’t show up until tomorrow, but, so far, the snobbery level is surprisingly low.
Gary and Gemma Walsh in particular surprise me. For some reason I’d been expecting them to be more Kylie’s people than Aria’s: gorgeous, pretentious, and all too aware of their status at the top of society.
Instead, they’re somewhere in between Kylie’s polished self-awareness and Aria’s infectious warmth.
They don’t flinch upon learning that a country club employee is lurking in their midst. For that alone, I give them credit. My parents would have shit a brick had a lowly bartender crashed one of their summer parties.
But Aria’s parents barely blink. In fact, I get the distinct feeling that they’re used to Aria bringing around all manner of lost creatures.
Not that I’m lost. Or, if I am, it’s deliberately so.
Aria tells me that tomorrow will be catered, “very red, white, and blue, very creepy,” but tonight Aria’s dad is gearing up to throw burgers and hot dogs on the grill and it all feels strangely … normal.
“Mr. Walsh, can I help?”
He pauses in the process of pouring a glass of wine for himself. “You’re Aria’s friend in addition to her trainer, right?”
Only because she seems determined to give me no choice.
“Yeah,” I say, cautiously.
