Sink or Swim (Beach Kingdom Book 3) Read online

  Maybe it was the jealousy that still boiled in his belly two weeks after seeing her on a date, maybe it was the sense that their relationship was slipping through his fingers like fine sand. Whatever the reason, Andrew let himself wonder for a split second what she thought of his body. How she thought about it. If she compared it to the guy from the restaurant.

  Get dressed, asshole. You’ll ruin everything.

  Dragging his attention away from the most beautiful women to grace the earth wasn’t easy. It never was. But he did it now, ripping the top shirt out of his drawer and covering himself. Forcing an apologetic half-smile on to his face, he padded to the low window and lifted it fully, dropping to his knees so he could lean out, forearms braced on the sill.

  “Hey,” he mouthed.

  Jiya broke from her state of suspended animation with a jolt. As she dropped off her purse of the nightstand and fussed with the scrunchie around her wrist, Andrew let his guard drop and soaked her in. Just for a few seconds and then he’d go back to being Andrew the friend. Andrew only, ever, just her friend.

  Jiya wore a white button-down shirt and black pants that Andrew knew were way too snug in the ass department. If he was Jiya’s boyfriend—and he’d taken a lot of time to think about this—he’d ask her if she was aware that her ass was insanely sexy. Knowing Jiya, she’d say yes, she was well aware. And when she did, when she expected him to demand she wear looser pants, he’d peel them down her butt and ask permission to eat that thing instead.

  That wouldn’t stop him from hating every customer at Spice for getting a front row seat to the perfect twitch of her buns when she walked. Christ knew he was aware of her attributes enough for everyone and their brother.

  Brutally, endlessly aware.

  And he would be for the rest of his life. He was resigned to it.

  Andrew closed his eyes and breathed through his nose, knowing from experience he’d have an erection until they closed their respective blinds, signaling the end of their goodnights—and there was nothing he could do about it. Sometimes his cock would be stiff for days before he finally gave in and disrespected the Jiya in his imagination, jacking himself off in the shower with his mouth open and panting against the wet tile, picturing them in all manner of positions.

  There were no consequences for making love to his best friend inside his own head. Except for maybe guilt. Okay, definite guilt. But he would only ever be with Jiya, the object of his admiration, affection and lust, within the walls of his own brain. He’d made his own bed and now he would lie in it, uncomfortably, forever. Watching from behind a wall of prison bars as some other man eventually made her laugh, instead of boring her to death, like the last one.

  Jiya twisted her long, black hair into a knot on top of her head, securing it there with a pale blue scrunchie. The weight of her mane immediately made the bundle droop to one side, but she left it perfectly imperfect and opened the window. When she knelt, the sound of her knees landing on the floor made Andrew battle a groan, but battle it he did. Her eyes were still betraying her shock at finding him half naked and he needed Jiya comfortable. Now. Needed her soothed and happy and with him.

  At least like this. At a safe distance.

  “Hey,” she called quietly into the night wind.

  Andrew cleared the hunger from his throat. “How was your day?”

  “Sucky. No one wants Indian food when it’s ninety-seven degrees outside.”

  “Bad for you. Good for us.”

  Her lips pressed together. “I’ll leave the leftovers on your stoop in the morning.”

  It really shouldn’t have come as a shock to him that Jiya had finally gone on that date.

  It should shock him even less that she’d stopped coming to breakfast at the Prince household every morning, as was their routine. He’d felt that shift between them that afternoon on the boardwalk. Things were different now. A line had been drawn and there was nothing he could do about it.

  Jiya’s parents expected her to be married by now. She should be married by now. She was beautiful beyond words, smart, the funniest person he knew. Observant, sly, caring, a pragmatist that allowed for a dreamer streak. Hard working. Everything. The girl was every man’s dream come true. She had been his since moving to Long Beach from India when she was nine, trading the western state of Gujarat for their busy beach town.

  That afternoon when she’d peeked through their shared backyard fence and invited Andrew, Jamie and Rory into her garage for a Coke was cemented in his memory. It had been an escape from another afternoon of adults screaming in the Prince household. Another afternoon of fear had turned into one of hope. Awe. Love.

  Jiya had owned him since that day.

  And with one hard decision, he’d lost his chance of maybe, just maybe, calling her his own someday. Don’t look back. Head down, move on. What happened can’t be undone.

  Her date was too fresh to move on from, however. It had been arranged by Jiya’s parents and as far as Andrew knew, no second date had been scheduled, but that outcome provided zero comfort. Because there would be another. And another. The girl that held his pulpy, bloody heart in her hands would eventually find someone to marry, to settle down with. There would be no more goodnights after that. Only goodbyes.

  Andrew could feel the inevitability of that breathing down his neck like a hunting dog.

  Kneeling in the window and pretending everything was normal? Not an easy task. Passing up a single second in her presence would have been much harder.

  “Are you ready for tomorrow?” he asked.

  She scrunched her nose. “Are you sure I should come along? Don’t I need a penis to participate in a bachelor party? I’m going to feel out of place and derpy.”

  “Jiya,” he scoffed. “You could never be derpy.”

  “It’s a pity invite and you know it. You’re going to make fewer dick jokes if I’m there and I don’t want that for you, Andrew.” She pressed a hand to her chest. “I want the dick jokes to be flowing.”

  God, he was so in love with her, he wanted to rip his hair out by the roots. “When have we ever shied away from a dick joke when you’re around?”

  “You do,” she said, brow knitting. “You’re too much of a gentleman to make them when I’m around.”

  “How do you know I make them at all?”

  “Do you?”

  He could feel his own chagrin. “I live with two dudes. I work nights in the bar. Sometimes there’s no way around it.”

  “See? I’m a dick joke hindrance to you.”

  “What if I promise to make three…of those jokes tomorrow night. Minimum.”

  She gasped. “You can’t even call them what they are.”

  Andrew held a finger to his lips. A gentle reminder not to wake up her parents who slept on the opposite side of the house. “Three. Minimum. You’re coming.” He winked at her. “Besides, we got Jamie a stripper. You can’t miss that.”

  Jiya’s mouth fell open. “Do you have a death wish? You can’t be Jamie’s best man from a gurney in the emergency room—and that’s where you’ll end up if Marcus finds out you got Jamie a stripper.”

  “Guess you’ll have to come along and defend me.”

  “I’ll be too busy watching the stripper!”

  They both had to bury their faces in the crooks of their elbows so they wouldn’t laugh too loudly and wake up the neighborhood. A warm balm settled over Andrew. Things had changed after the date, but thankfully this nighttime custom was still in effect. For now. They couldn’t have moments like this forever, so he was going to enjoy them while he could. Collect them like quarters in a swear jar until he couldn’t fit any more. Or she stopped providing them.

  Andrew swallowed. “Come over at six. We’ll all head out together. Grab dinner…”

  She nodded, poking at her lopsided bun. “Okay fine. But I’m holding you to the three dick joke minimum, Andrew Prince.”

  His cock jumped at the husky way she said his name. “I won’t let you down.” />
  Her eyes flashed at his tone of voice. “Good.”

  And he couldn’t help living in that little pocket of intimacy with her. He didn’t ask for much. Just one too-brief moment. “Sorry about that. Before.”

  “About…what?” In the moonlight, he could see her brown cheeks deepen to russet. “You’re allowed to be topless in your own bedroom.”

  “Yeah, but…I usually draw the blinds first,” he responded, his voice banked in fog. Andrew’s hand hovered just above his shaft where it strained in his slacks, but he wouldn’t touch it while they were speaking. While they were saying good night. He’d die before treating her and these moments she afforded him with anything less than respect. “I only get undressed after I pull them closed.”

  A beat passed. “Me too,” she murmured, flushing deeper.

  “Yeah?” He breathed the question.

  She hummed. “Good night, Andrew.”

  “Wait, Jiya.” Both hands landed on the window sill, gripping it tight enough to turn his knuckles bloodless. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  Every night when they were both home to wish each other good night, for eighteen years, he’d asked her the same question before retreating to his bedroom.

  Sometimes she deliberated for a second, then reluctantly asked him to do something she didn’t have time for. Like pump up the tires on her father’s bike or move something heavy to the backyard shed. Once she’d asked him to drive her to a hair appointment in the neighboring town because her car was in the shop. Walking her to the door of the salon had been one of the proudest moments of his life. She’d even hugged him and kissed him on the cheek to say thank you, prompting the receptionist to waggle her eyebrows at Jiya and ask if Andrew was her boyfriend.

  He’d beat off so hard that night, he’d temporarily lost the hearing in his right ear.

  Jesus Christ, to be her boyfriend. To be inside the bedroom with her, instead of speaking to her from a different house. To drive her to every appointment she made. Hold her after a bad day. Pick her up and spin her around on a good one. To undress her, feel her thighs tremble around his hips when she orgasmed. Listen to her cries up close, skin to skin. To drive himself into her, watching the root of his cock vanish inside of her and slide out glistening.

  Stop. Before she sees every thought in your head.

  “Um…” Jiya pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Nope. I think I’m all set.”

  Disappointment trampled him. “Are you sure? Without your leftovers, we’d be living off pizza crust and Bud Light. Give me a way to repay the favor.”

  His hunger must not have been disguised when he made that statement, because she sucked in a breath and let it out in a rush of laughter. “But you already gave me the free peep show.” In the wake of his surprise, she stood. “Good night, Andrew.”

  “Good night,” he said, reluctantly.

  He remained kneeling on the floor in reverence, watching her curves disappear behind the blinds she lowered inch by inch. Completely. Slowly. When nothing but her silhouette remained, Andrew still didn’t move, continuing to memorize the endearing tilt of her bun, the slope of her neck, all highlighted by the soft lamp. She would turn off the light now and he’d have to wait until tomorrow night to see her again. Hear her voice.

  His knees were beginning to protest the position, but he froze in the process of rising to his feet. Right there, mere yards separating them, Jiya’s shadow stripped off its shirt.

  Time stood still and moved way too fast at the same time. He was only given seconds to look at her silhouette and know she wore nothing but a bra—and the light went out.

  “No. No, no, no. Don’t do this to me.” He sidestepped the window and ground his forehead against the wall. His very survival in that moment hinged on reaching into his black slacks and taking rough hold of his cock. “Don’t tempt me now, when I can’t have you.”

  That first stroke almost got him off, the next one sealed the deal. How could it not when Jiya had just stripped for him, knowing exactly what she was doing?

  Knowing exactly what she was doing.

  Andrew’s knees bumped the wall, his hips thrusting into a brutally tight fist as he spent himself all over his bedroom floor, stomach constricting painfully at the speed of his orgasm, the intensity of it. “Oh fuck, fuck, fuck.”

  Just like every other time he got himself off, it fell short of satisfying. He’d had years to wonder why even the best jerk off sessions left him hollow. There was no satisfaction for Jiya in the solo act. That’s why. What should have given him relief only made him more agitated.

  Yanking his pants back up with a curse, Andrew struck a fist against the wall, then pushed away from it. He fell onto the edge of his bed, head buried in clammy hands. Most of his life was spent working. Creating the lifeguarding roster, scheduling bar shifts, counting money. Organizing. Paying off his father’s debts. Working, working, working.

  He would have nothing to distract him over the next two days while they celebrated Marcus and Jamie’s marriage.

  And Jiya would be right there. Having taken her shirt off for him.

  How the hell was he going to survive?

  CHAPTER THREE

  JIYA SLIPPED ON her new, nude high heels, walked in a circle around her bedroom and took them off, setting them at the perfect angle by the door. It was too early to put on the uncomfortable shoes. She only had a four-hour window before the pain reared its ugly head, so best to wait until the last possible second to subject her feet to the abuse.

  She checked the time on her cell phone again. Five fifty.

  There was only ten seconds of travel time between her house and the Prince residence, so she had nine minutes and fifty seconds to kill. Put the shoes on? Walk another circle? The distraction might be worth shortening her shoe pain window.

  Jiya started to cover her face with both hands, but stopped short, remembering how long it had taken to apply her makeup. “Oh my God, I took my shirt off in front of Andrew.” She locked eyes with herself in the small mirror above her bureau. “Are you insane?”

  She walked another circle, minus the shoes this time.

  A full day later, Jiya still couldn’t believe she’d done it. What had possessed her?

  While she was a fairly confident woman, she’d never considered herself vain. That being said, when she’d stripped off her shirt last night, there’d definitely been an element of take a good look at what you let slip away, sucker. Maybe even a slightly self-destructive sentiment that she should not be entertaining. One that wanted to jolt Andrew into seeing her as more.

  Even though he clearly didn’t see her as anything more than his best friend.

  Even though it was too late.

  Bottom line, she should not be playing games with Andrew. She should be focusing on a realistic future, that unfortunately wouldn’t involve him. Not as more than anything but a friend.

  Still. Guilt trickled into her belly and she frowned at her reflection. It was ridiculous to feel unfaithful toward Andrew. They weren’t boyfriend and girlfriend. Some days, she wasn’t sure what they were. But he’d never kissed her, touched her, asked her out or behaved in any way that didn’t scream, “We’re platonic, everyone! She might as well be my sister.”

  At age twenty-nine, she wasn’t just being encouraged by her parents to marry…she wanted that life for herself. A committed relationship. Love. Messes and laundry and back to school shopping. Waking up tired on Sunday mornings and complaining with someone over coffee about the youth they took for granted. Instead, she was a single waitress with a communications degree from the University of Rochester that she’d never utilized, living with her parents and waiting around for…what? What was she waiting for?

  A flash from last night caught Jiya off guard and made her belly swim with warmth. Andrew without a shirt, those black pants hanging low on his hips. Hair mussed. Shoulder muscles bunched, twin dimples shifting at the base of his spine.

  Some days, she could forget her b
est friend was an insane, stupefying kind of hot.

  Today wasn’t one of them. Yes, at the moment, she was all too aware of Andrew resembling a sun-kissed Richard Madden, minus the Scottish accent, but with the addition of sturdier calves. Not that she’d put a lot of thought into it or anything.

  Jiya picked up her hairbrush and dragged it through her thick, ink black hair. She didn’t have a full-length mirror, so she stepped back and rose on her tiptoes, trying to judge her appearance from the awkward angle. Her dress wasn’t exactly a daring coral color—she tended to favor bright oranges and yellows, especially during weddings or special occasions at temple. But it was a pretty damn daring color for a dress this tight. Low cut, too. The fallbacks of ordering a dress online at the last second and assuming it would accommodate her prodigious rack.

  It didn’t not look good, though. Hopefully she’d sneak out of the house without running into her mother, though. That could get dicey.

  Lips pursed, Jiya eyeballed the window and considered climbing out.

  Right. She couldn’t climb over a garden gnome in this dress, let alone attempt a jailbreak. With a sigh, she checked her cell phone again. Five more minutes? Was time moving backwards? She should be grateful for the impossibly slow grind of seconds, because she had no idea how to look Andrew in the face.

  She’d have to look at his ripped shoulders instead.

  Or his tight, bitable butt.

  “Jiya,” she berated her reflection again. “You’re a menace.”

  Frantically searching her room for a distraction from her unacceptable thoughts, her attention landed on the envelope sitting in a place of honor atop her jewelry box.

  Flying lessons.