From Lust...
Harper heard the old Chevy roar into the driveway and rushed to the window. There he was. Lean. Tan. Shirtless. His golden hair bronzed by the sun, his hundred-watt smile piercing through his obvious exhaustion.
Adam. Her next-door neighbor. Her childhood friend—her partner for swimming lessons, playground dates, imaginary tea parties, and the occasional game of doctor.
And now, years later: Homecoming king. Star of the swim team. The basketball team. The lacrosse team. Basically, an All-American high school stud. None of which meant much to her, considering how lame their school was, and the fact that she usually saw sports as a crutch for the mentally weak. Besides, that’s not what she saw anymore when she looked at him. Or, at least, not all she saw, not anymore.
She opened the window, about to call out to him, to wave—then thought better of it and just watched. What saw when she looked at him was her oldest friend, the boy who knew all of her secrets and liked her anyway—the boy she’d recently discovered was a man she wanted to be with. Might even be in love with.
What a hassle.
The poor little overlooked best friend, languishing in the shadows, the man of her dreams blinded by the bright glare of puppy love. Tossing his true soul mate aside in favor of a human Barbie doll. It was such a pathetic cliché—and Harper didn’t do clichés. She liked to consider herself unique, and she wasn’t a huge fan of seeing her life turn into a second-rate knockoff of a third-rate teen chick flick. Especially one that starred her as the weepy protagonist too wimpy to open her mouth and take what she wanted.
But on the other hand—just look at him.
Postgame, Adam was hot, sweaty, shirtless, and his taut body gleamed in the sun. Harper couldn’t take her eyes off him—that tan six-pack, those firm pecs, the broad biceps that, if she used her imagination, she could feel ever so gently tightening around her. . . .
There was just one problem with the picture perfect romance: the picture-perfect girlfriend. Beautiful Beth. Blond Beth. Bland and boring Beth.
Lately, the Blond One was all Adam could talk about, and it was driving Harper slowly but surely insane. He was probably even now heading inside to call her, to whisper sweet nothings in his lilting Southern accent (an adorable holdover from an early childhood in South Carolina.) He was probably already planning some sickeningly sweet, romantic candlelit dinner for their last night of summer. He was just that kind of guy. It was disgusting. And it should have been her.
Harper slammed the window shut and crossed the room to her bed, which was covered in clothes—a haphazard pile of unsuitable first-day-of-school possibilities. She burrowed through them in frustration, wondering how it was possible that with all these clothes, she never had anything to wear.
The beaded yellow tank top with pleated ruffles and an off-center sash that had looked so promising in the store? Hideous.
The stonewashed denim jacket that hugged her curves and made her feel like a supermodel? So last season.
The tan blouse and matching scarf her mother had brought home as a surprise last month? Yeah, maybe—if she was forty. And a desperate housewife.
No. She needed something special, something that would make her look good. Really good, Harper mused, fingering a lime green miniskirt that she knew would show off her tan—and potentially, depending on how far she bent over, a lot more.
It was simple. Harper wanted Adam—and Harper always got what she wanted. It was just a matter of figuring out how.
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