Wicked Sexy Liar (Wild Seasons #4)(87)

I pocket my phone and go back to work, watching as the bar slowly empties.

At one, Fred turns off the outside lights, and I text Luke a quick, Leaving in about ten. You still up?

I check five minutes later. No answer.

When the last glass is washed and the bar lights are turned out, there’s nothing left to do but make my way to my car. Luke still hasn’t answered, and I know that I’m stalling because if I text him again and am met with nothing but silence, I’ll think too much about what it means. I wave to Fred and wait another five minutes before typing, Headed home. Exhausted. Let’s talk tomorrow.





Chapter SIXTEEN


Luke

I WAKE WITH A start, still in last night’s jeans and with the remote resting on my stomach. The room is bright, the other side of the bed is untouched, and there’s no sign of London anywhere. The clock shows it’s almost eight and I sit up, fumbling for my phone and squinting at the screen, wondering why London isn’t here and why she didn’t text when she got off like she said she would. I do a quick scroll through my messages but don’t see the name I’m looking for, and it occurs to me that something could have happened to her, like maybe she didn’t make it out of Fred’s or even to her car.

I’ve never called someone so fast in my life.

It rings three times before London answers, the sound of wind whipping through the line.

“Are you okay?” I practically shout.

“What? Yeah, I’m fine. I’m up at Black’s.” She pauses for a moment before adding, “Are you okay?”

I fall back against my pillow and press my hand to my chest, only now realizing how fast my heart is pounding. “Yeah, I just—you said you’d text when you left and I must have fallen asleep. I woke up and . . .”

London is silent for a moment and I can hear the sound of seagulls overhead. “I did text you—twice, actually—but you didn’t answer,” she says. “You didn’t get them?”

I roll to my side and close my eyes. “Yeah, I didn’t see anything.”

“Did you actually read your messages, Luke?”

“I started to,” I say, putting her on speaker so I can take a closer look. There’s . . . well, there’s a few.

Michelle: Wanna hang out?

Dylan: Did you know that polar bears aren’t actually white?

Call me if ur bored. 619-555-3344? I have no idea who this person even is.

Tonya: Did I leave my bra at your place on Valentine’s? The one with the LED lights?

Leiah: I’m in town next weekend . . .

Scroll . . .

Scroll . . .

CALL ME. Who is Brunette With Great Rack?—And did I really put that as a contact in my phone?

“Still reading?” London asks, and I can hear the hard smile in her voice. “Must have been a busy night.”

“Quiet, you,” I tell her, but wow, she’s sort of right. I get a lot of texts on a normal day, but I don’t think I ever realized how many of them were quite so . . . suggestive. I rarely reply to any, and when I do it’s only the girls I might have somehow managed to become friendly with over time, or hook up with again . . . on occasion.

But this is . . . eye-opening.

I’m about to call it quits and give London the big I told you so, when I see her name in the middle of a few others.

Leaving in about ten. You still up? And then about twenty minutes later: Headed home. Exhausted. Let’s talk tomorrow.

“Oh.”

“I guess you found it?” she asks, voice a little tighter now.

I frown. I don’t like that London was right about this, and I don’t like the way I feel right now. I don’t feel proud or like a big swinging dick with girls texting me like this. I feel sort of sleazy.

“Yeah, I didn’t see it, I guess,” I mumble. “Sorry.”

London laughs, but still, it’s a little off. Has this always bothered her? “You’re a popular guy.”

I opt for a subject change. “Well, anyway, I missed you last night.”

There’s a moment of silence before London answers. “I missed you, too.”

I am so f*cking crazy for this girl that such a simple admission and my chest is filled with helium. “What are you doing today?”

“I’ll probably finish Lola’s site, maybe run some errands. Right now I’m just hanging out, thinking.”

“Just thinking?”

She pauses. “Yeah . . .”

I don’t like the way all of this makes me feel. “Need some help?”

“Some help thinking?” she says, and I close my eyes, imagining the way her dimples are probably denting her cheeks when she says this.

“Don’t you need to get to work today? Or are you taking another personal day?”

“I’m meeting one of the partners down at the courthouse later this afternoon. I have some time this morning.”

“You want to meet at Black’s? We could work on your pop-up,” she says.

“At Black’s?” I clarify, brows raised.

“Sure, why not?”

“I know next to nothing about surfing, and even I know Black’s does not have a bunny hill, Logan.”

“There’s a section of nude beach here. Maybe I just want to get you naked.”