1. Peyton's Back

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***** FIRST DRAFT - PLEASE DO NOT SUBMIT TO/REVIEW ON ONLINE DATABASES SUCH AS GOODREADS

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***** FIRST DRAFT - PLEASE DO NOT SUBMIT TO/REVIEW ON ONLINE DATABASES SUCH AS GOODREADS. THIS BOOK CONTAINS EXPLICIT LANGUAGE & SEXUALITY *****

As always, Peyton Bishop looked so out of place standing at the door to our trailer that I laughed.

He was perfect, all six feet two inches of him, perfect from the tips of his golden blond hair all the way down to his loafers handcrafted in Europe by designers with names that I couldn't pronounce.

"Peyton!" It'd been three months since I'd last seen him.

He smiled, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his neatly pressed khaki shorts.

Opening the screen door between us, I stepped out into the merciless heat. "What are you doing here?" 

"Surprised?"

"Yes! You said you wouldn't be back until next weekend."

"I decided to skip the last graduation party. Three was more than enough."

Peyton attended, or rather, just graduated from Phillips Exeter, a boarding school on the east coast.

Grinning, I brushed my lips against his cheek. "Rich people problems."

Dear God, he smelled so good.

He was still smiling when I pulled back, but his eyes had changed. There it was again, that longing he was never quite able to hide. It was always there in that first long look after any period of separation, in the way his eyes would wander over my face, in the way he would exhale and visibly relax, as if he'd been waiting for months to do it.

It was kind of a mind fuck. I was about eighty to eighty five percent sure that he like liked me, but he never did anything about it. What a shame that was, because all he had to do was snap his fingers and I'd have been on my back begging him for it. I was pretty sure he knew that too.

Anyway. Whatever the hold up was, it wasn't like I was going anywhere.

"You look really good, I don't know how you keep that tan up in New Hampshire."

And I wish I could rub my face all over you, and your bad-ass tan.

To stop myself from staring further, I busied myself with getting my bag together.

"What's this? You're not going to invite me in?" he asked, feigning horror.

"I would, but I need to get to work."

"Old Man Beaudry's again?"

"He pays more than the Dairy Queen."

He opened his mouth, probably to offer me money again. I didn't want to hear it, so I turned my back on him. This was always a point of contention between us.

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