Page 71 of The Parent Trap

He’s following directions on his phone, which is on his lap rather than plugged in—but I have no idea where we’re going.

Apparently, to an exclusive gated community, where the houses are on multi-acre plots facing the ocean.

He pulls into a specific house—not one I’ve ever seen.

“Whose house is this?” I ask.

“My friend’s, who owns this car.” He gets out. “Come on.”

“Where? What are we doing?”

He doesn’t answer, just walks backward until I exit the car and join him, trotting to catch up.

He leads me around the side of the house, to the backyard, which backs up to the sea. It’s crashing noisily, and gulls caw.

The nearest house is around a bend, out of sight.

He pauses at the water’s edge, where the waves lap at the toes of his shoes. “These are vacation homes, second or third places for…well, people with more money than they know what to do with. So, no one is here. Not for a mile in either direction.”

I frown at him. “Okay?”

He pops the cork out of the wine bottle, tosses the corkscrew with the cork still on it into the sand. Takes a long drink right from the bottle. Hands the bottle to me.

Grins, wild, mischievous.

I immediately know what that grin means.

“Thai, no.” I take the bottle, but just hold it.

He’s wearing tight gray slacks, tailored and perfect. A white button-down, also tailored. Expensive shoes. It’s all bespoke, fits him like a glove.

He unbuttons his shirt. “Thai, yes.” The shirt comes off, leaving him in a white ribbed tank top.

That comes off, too.

I shake my head. “You’re nuts. I’m not doing this.”

“It’s private property. No one lives in either house—shit, I’m pretty sure all of these places are empty right now. We’re the only people for miles.”

“I don’t have a bathing suit.”

“Me either.” That wild grin again.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“We don’t’ have towels. What are we going to do? Drip all over your friend’s quarter-million-dollar car?”

“Over a million—it’s special. There’s actual diamonds ground up in the paint, or something ridiculous. And he gave me the code for the door. There’s towels inside.”

I watch him peel out of the tank top, and he’s shirtless—that insane, magnificent torso is rippling and perfect. My mouth waters—I’ve never seen anyone in real life who actually looks like that—carved out of marble, magazine-worthy.

But he’s not done. Shoes get kicked off, one flying one way, the other another. Socks balled up and tossed.

He pauses, hands on the fly of his pants. “Come on, Dee. Don’t make me do this alone.”

“You’re serious?”