Having hope was her weakness.
If Sadie Mullins hadn’t started to believe in love again, hadn’t let herself fall for him, she wouldn’t be feeling this way.
Wouldn’t have her heart breaking.
Wouldn’t regret meeting West Montgomery.
The cocky bastard should have left her alone, let her forget about him.
Let her move on with her life.
Of course, he didn’t.
That could have been the end of it.
Of course, it wasn’t.
*This is Book 2 in the Water’s Edge Series and is a continuation of Sadie and West’s story that began in Wet. This is not a standalone.*
The bartender was my new best friend. I frowned. Well, after Rue. And Theo. My third best-est friend. Because she kept pouring me these great margaritas.
I normally hated margaritas.
But Alison? My third best-est friend? She made some damn good ones. And there were so many flavors! Lime was okay. Mango was better. Watermelon wasn’t that great, but I drank it anyway because I didn’t want to hurt its feelings. I was almost finished with blood orange and it might have been my favorite, but I still had two flavors to go, so who knew?
The only thing I needed to decide on was whether pink lemonade or pineapple was next.
Wasn’t pineapple supposed to make cum taste sweeter?
Wait — that only worked if the guy drank it. Right?
I couldn’t remember now.
And it was fucking glorious.
Alison was my new third best-est friend and blood orange margaritas were the shit.
Best. Night. Ever.
I swung my head around when I heard the stool next to me being slid across the terracotta-tiled floor and almost lost my balance.
But Nick caught me.
Niiiiiiick. He looked nice tonight. Tight, dark shirt. Fitted khakis. I could kind of see the outline of his bulge against the fabric.
It wasn’t bad.
West had a nice bulge too.
I wrinkled my forehead. No. I shook my head. No.
Not thinking about him tonight.
Hey! Nick was here. Maybe he could drink the pineapple margarita and help me remember. I could get the pink lemonade one then.
I grinned up at him, and poked him in the chest with my finger.
“Alison!” I yelled. “This guy—” poke “—needs a pineapple margarita. And I’ll take the lemonade one next.”
She raised an eyebrow and looked at Nick for confirmation.
Nick with the bulge.
He leaned closer to me. “Why pineapple?”
I rolled my eyes. “Because I can’t remember. And this will solve the problem!”
I’m a Southern girl who firmly believes mornings should be outlawed. My perfect day would include lounging on a hammock with a good book, carbohydrates, and the people around me randomly breaking into choreographed song and dance routines. It would not include bacon, cleaning, or anything requiring patience.