Wrecked (Sons of San Clemente Book 2) (23 page)

“Lane.” Her musical voice flowed over him like water. “No, thank you.”

And then the bitch walked by him. Like he was nothing she remembered.

And he was nineteen again, driving all night so he could bring her an espresso and chocolate croissant in bed. Kissing her senseless, starting at her beautiful toes and working his way up like her sex slave, always eager to please her, anything she wanted whenever she wanted, wherever she wanted. Walking into intimidating women’s boutiques, cluttered with colorful “accessories” just to find her a gift, a bracelet, a dress, a sexy camisole that she’d wear just for him. Maybe he’d cajole her into taking a hike with him in Griffith Park or to ditch class like he had so that they could go up to Zuma Beach and surf or head south to San Clemente and Trestles, his favorite surf spot.

What a loser he’d been, obsessing over her. Thinking about her all the time. Calling just to hear her voice. Loving her like she was the only woman in the world, the only woman who’d ever matter to him when there were so many millions more who’d have been thrilled to please him. Who the hell wanted to marry at twenty? He kicked his young idealistic self.

His friends and water polo teammates had thought he was ridiculous, spending so much energy on one chick, when he could have had hundreds. His family was obscenely rich. And by the time he’d been eighteen he’d been over six-four, cut from years of water polo and surfing, smart, confident, and ambitious. He’d practically had to dodge girls and women anytime he left the house. He’d been propositioned in class, in the line at Starbucks, grocery store, once at the dentist, out for pizza with teammates. Daily.

And had he taken advantage of it?

No. Never. Hadn’t even crossed his mind. Luz had been his light, that dark-hearted bitch.

Dumb fuck
.

He’d been faithful. Chasing after Luz for four months before she’d even consent to have a date with him, because she was three years older and the age difference freaked her out. So he’d set out to prove how mature he was. Sophisticated.
Idiot
. And when she’d finally said yes, he’d been so grateful and thrilled and nervous he hadn’t even held her hand the first night.

He could shoot himself for remembering any of it. Totally cringeworthy. God, how she must have laughed at him. Probably told his brother every stupid detail, proving how unmanned he’d been.

With another curse, he hurtled himself back in the ocean and began paddling fiercely through the break, letting the water crash over his head and his body, hoping the ocean could pound away the black memories of when he’d had feelings. Crush out even the spark of memory of intense love, longing, and loss.

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Sinclair Jayne has loved reading romance novels since she discovered Barbara Cartland historical romances when she was in sixth grade. By seventh grade, she was haunting the library shelves looking to fall in love over and over again with the heroes born from the imaginations of her favorite authors. After teaching writing classes and workshops to adults and teens for many years in Seattle and Portland, she returned to her first love of reading romances and became an editor for Tule Publishing last year.

Sinclair lives in Oregon’s wine country where she and her family own a small vineyard of Pinot Noir and where she dreams of being able to write at a desk like Jane Austen instead of in parking lots waiting for her kids to finish one of their 12,000 extracurricular activities.

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