Or she’s too convinced that she’s . . . What did Hilary call her? A fat tagalong? Jesus. If I’d known, I never would have let that fly.

Carter studies me. “Why?” One word, hundreds of warnings.

I shrug. “Just curious how much she tells you.”

Carter frowns. “Wait. What’s that supposed to mean? Do you know something? Does she have a boyfriend?”

“You really are the protective big brother cliché.” I press my palm between his shoulder blades and give him a good shove toward the beach. “The party is waiting.”

As I suspected, it’s less than fifteen minutes until Carter is completely distracted and I can head back to the house without him noticing. I used the time to circulate and listen to everyone’s congrats. Carter’s right. I should be out there. This is my celebration. Lifelong dream accomplished. But there’s only one person I want to celebrate with. One person with killer soft curves and a beautiful smile who owes me a secret.

Shay’s not in the kitchen where we left her. Did she go down to the bonfire and I missed her? I check the basement. Nothing. I head back to the kitchen and grab a beer from the fridge, ready to give up. Then I hear the screech of old pipes and realize a shower is shutting off.

Grinning, I stride toward the stairs and climb to the second floor. By the time Shay pushes out of the bathroom in a puff of steam, I’m leaning against the opposite wall, arms folded.

She jumps. “Jesus, Easton. Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

I don’t answer. My own heart is having some issues. Mainly, it’s racing like it’s trying to force me forward with its momentum—toward her.

I did not think this through.

She’s in a fluffy light blue robe. It’s tied at the waist but gapes open at her chest, giving me a view of the swell of her cleavage. Her wet hair is combed out of her face and falls in light waves down her back.

It would be so easy to tug on the waistband of her robe, to pull her to me and slide my hands inside, to cup her breasts and lower my mouth to hers. Easy, but a fucking death sentence.

“Easton!” She tugs the top of her robe tighter. “Ohmygod. Were you just looking at my breasts?”

I take a deep breath and drag my gaze back up to meet hers. “I love that you call them breasts.”

“What else am I supposed to call them?”

I shrug. “Most girls your age would dodge calling them anything at all. Or maybe vaguely refer to their chest.”

“I think you’re wrong. I’m not twelve anymore.”

I hope my arched brow conveys the obviously I’m not allowed to say.

She swallows. “And, well . . . I guess I’m not afraid of words.”