Chapter Text
Belly Conklin is frustrated as hell.
She paces the length of her Brooklyn bedroom, the worn hardwood floors creaking beneath her feet.
It’s 9:14 p.m. on Thursday night towards the end of August, and tomorrow morning, she's leaving for a beach vacation to celebrate her brother Steven’s 30th birthday.
Her suitcase sits open on her bed. Only the essentials are packed: her makeup and toiletry bags, socks, bras, underwear.
What does she pack for a week at a coastal summerhouse with a bunch of Steven’s friends and their significant others? (And then a week without them all, but she's trying not to think about that part. Not yet.)
You won't be the only single person there, at least, Steven had said, when she brought this up to him on her way home from work yesterday. That “at least” is still echoing through her mind almost 24 hours later. Conrad’s single, too. For another, Taylor will be there, so you’ll know at least two people.
Taylor Jewel: Belly’s best friend since high school. She’s an events planner for a high-end boutique agency in Boston, a lifestyle influencer on the side, and Steven’s longtime girlfriend. Every time Belly’s asked what she should wear this week, Taylor’s said some version of you know, beach chic. Swimsuits and cover-ups, cute sandals. And sunscreen. Lots of sunscreen.
So helpful.
Conrad Fisher: He and Steven met at space camp when they were in middle school and have been best friends ever since. Belly has only met him twice, fleetingly, enough that she can’t recall his facial features (beyond a pair of piercing green eyes and a beauty mark above the left side of his upper lip) or the sound of his voice. The only things she knows about him are the (surprisingly sparse) things she’s cobbled together from Steven over the years: He graduated from Stanford, and he lives in Brooklyn, not far from Belly. He’s single, works in audio engineering, his Instagram profile is unfortunately private and only has four posts and 149 followers, and, perhaps most importantly, his family owns the beach house where everyone is staying this week in the tiny yet ritzy town of Cousins Beach.
The first time Belly and Conrad Fisher had met, they hadn't gotten along.
The second time had been even worse; he’d been cool and standoffish, debating her on almost everything she’d said to him. His deliriously green eyes sparkled like he was doing it on purpose.
Oh, come on, Belly’s brain corrects with a scoff. You can admit it, you were turned on by him. You even touched yourself after, two fingers inside you, and when you came, it was him you saw behind your closed eyelids.
Which, yeah, is true.
That was three years ago. He was hot, and she’d been 25 and horny.
Those are her only excuses.
Those aren't, if you think about it, excuses at all. But Belly isn’t thinking about it.
It's not like she's going to masturbate to thoughts of Conrad Fisher again. She’s matured. She knows better than to want to be with someone standoffish, someone rude, someone that became friends with Steven first, for fuck’s sake.
You know that wasn't the last time you saw him, right? her brain inquires, a little snarky, a little soft.
She knows. That memory still makes her flinch, a humiliated flush burns her cheeks.
Everyone in black. Her mother’s funeral.
She shoves that thought away before it materializes.
That wasn't it, either, her brain says. It was last year. At the bar.
Right.
Belly doesn't mind this memory. In fact, it’s one she turns over and over in her mind, because that night, he’d been so unlike the Conrad she’d come to expect. He’d been quiet, yes, and he still argued with her in a way that turned her on, but he was funny, too.
She’d been turned on that night.
She told herself it was because of the tequila.
Except you weren't even that drunk, her brain corrects.
Maybe it was the tequila and the birthday cake she'd had.
Then why did you masturbate while thinking of him the next night, once the tequila and sugar had been out of your system for a while? her brain asks.
She doesn’t have an answer for that.
And it’s not like she can ask Taylor for more info; she tried that last summer, a few weeks after her birthday, because she was curious about his attitude shift (that’s all) and Taylor’s eyes brightened with mischief, and she said, B, he’s very much your type. Tall, dark hair, quiet, nerdy. Do you want me to set you up?
Quiet? Nerdy?
Those weren't words Belly would use to describe Conrad Fisher.
You don't even know him, her brain singsong’d.
Her brain really needed to stop correcting her.
When Taylor asked last year, Belly had been happily single. Now, she can't even look at the apps without wanting to delete them, and meeting someone in real life has proved to be impossible.
She wishes she’d said yes, if only she could get an idea of who he is. Not even in a romantic sense, but because she’ll be spending the week in his house. It’s important to know who he is, right?
Before she can answer that question, her phone buzzes from where it’s perched on her nightstand, atop a pile of books she’s yet to read. Should she bring those?
She’d texted Taylor two hours ago, in a last-ditch effort to get a real answer on what she should bring for the week.
Taylor (9:17 p.m.): Bring whatever you feel comfortable in!
She's attached a photo: a pale pink suitcase open on top of a duvet cover, clothes thrown haphazardly into it. Bikinis stuffed in one corner next to her socks, a few sundresses, two pairs of jean shorts, a few t-shirts.
Belly can't help but laugh and type back: Taylor, we’re only going to be there for a week! How many outfits do you need?
Taylor (9:20 p.m.): You never know! The weather could fluctuate.
That's a good point. Belly last checked the weather a few days ago, but hasn’t checked it recently.
True, thanks! she replies to Taylor, feeling a little better now that she has some direction. See you tomorrow!
Then, she swipes away her messages so that she can check the weather app.
The hourly weather forecast for Cousins Beach is warm but a little cloudy all weekend. Chance of precipitation: 0%.
Thank god it's not supposed to rain. If it did, she’d never hear the end of how the weather ruined Steven’s perfect 30th birthday week.
She stares at her closet for a long time, then decides on sundresses, shorts, and t-shirts. She throws in a black romper that has been gathering dust in the back of her closet and has yet to be worn, a few swimsuits (including her favorite crimson strapless bikini and a red-and-white gingham one piece), and a pair of dark wash jeans and an olive green sweatshirt, just in case.
Remembering pajamas at the last second—somehow, she always almost forgets pajamas—she throws in a white tank top and light blue pajama shorts, as well as two oversized t-shirts and a pair of capri pajama pants with cats on them.
She zips her suitcase and sets it next to her bed, then flops onto her bed and shuts off the lamp on her nightstand, bathing the room in darkness.
Since she’s taking an early morning train to Boston, where she'll meet up with Steven and Taylor so they can all ride to Cousins together, she has to be up incredibly early, even earlier than she would if she were going to work tomorrow.
She sets her alarm, and then lies there in the dark for a while, worried about tomorrow. She’s met Steven’s other friends that will be on this trip; the only one she doesn't get along with is Conrad Fisher. What will he be like, now that it’s been three years since they've last seen each other? She already knows he’s her type—tall, dark hair, quiet, nerdy, Taylor had said last summer—so will Taylor try to set them up again? Would Belly want that now?
Belly tosses and turns for what feels like hours before she reaches for her phone. She’s still tense, and she knows (or, rather, hopes) one thing will help with that.
It's only 10:30.
With a sigh, she navigates to the app she uses the most: Feverish, an audio erotica app where different creators post stories of varying lengths.
Belly has one specific creator that she always gravitates towards, a man with a soft voice and unlimited patience that goes by simply CBeck.
No one—on the app or in real life—has gotten her off more times than CBeck has.
There’s just something about him that really, really does it for Belly.
He is basically the reason she pays Feverish’s $5.99 a month subscription fee, and she's never even seen a picture of him. His profile photo is of the sun rising over the ocean, the orange and yellow sky fading into the blue bejeweled water.
Is it his voice, low and rough and never fails to make her finish? Or is it his content, which is usually of the self-insert variety, always at least 20 minutes, setting a scene and establishing a bit of a relationship before building to the erotica?
Belly appreciates that. Some of the others don't waste time getting to it, which is great, but that's never been Belly’s speed.
She likes the tension.
The build up.
When the pleasure almost sneaks up on her, and then it’s so hot and so bright that she’s thrashing against the sheets, her cunt pulsing, her vibrator buzzing between her legs, her free hand tangling in her hair or pinching at her nipple, his voice bringing her to climax.
She has no idea what he looks like, but that doesn't mean she hasn't thought about it based on the few details he’s shared.
The first time he said, fuck, yeah, pull my hair<, she came so hard that she had to bite down on her pillow and let out a silent scream because she didn't want her roommates to hear.
So.
His hair is long enough to pull.
And when, 20 minutes into another story, he shuddered (!) and said, look at you, clenching around my fingers. They're already so deep inside of you. Do you want another? in that soft, gentle knowing way of his (the complete opposite of the words coming out of his mouth, which was obviously the point and also hot as fuck), she was thankful her roommates weren't home, because she whined so loudly that she was pretty sure it echoed throughout the whole apartment, even though her door was closed.
So.
His fingers are long, too.
Unless, of course, he’s just playing a character. Which is entirely possible, given the nature of his work.
It'd be easier to play pretend. To act. To have the sunrise profile picture and pretend to be someone who has hair long enough to pull and fingers long enough that he can say so deep inside of you and mean it.
CBeck may be a character, or bits and pieces of whoever he is in real life.
That doesn't stop Belly from listening, from getting off to him: his voice, echoing in her mind; pretending her hand is his, that he's on top of her, actually urging her toward her orgasm instead of merely being a voice coming from the Feverish app and into her headphones. That he’s inside her, his cock slowly dragging against her walls with each thrust, or his hand braced on her thighs as he loses control and fucks her into the mattress.
So, they're both doing a bit of pretending, which is okay.
It’s good, even.
Healthy, probably, for Belly to think of CBeck as a character and not a real person.
Now, she grabs her current favorite vibrator (a lilac bullet), reaches for the case that houses her wireless headphones, sighs in relief when they're charged, and puts them on.
And then she opens the Feverish app.
She navigates to her profile (with the app’s default profile photo—a fire emoji, inexplicably—and the username bellyflopjune, which isn't very creative, given it’s a play on her name with her birthday) and clicks on following.
There's only one account listed.
CBeck.
Obviously.
His content has tens of thousands, sometimes hundreds of thousands of plays, yet the way he talks has a way of the listener feeling like the only person in the world.
Belly doesn't know him, and she doesn't know how long his hair or his fingers are, but she knows that, the soft, singular way he talks, focused and precise and like whoever’s listening always has all of his attention, isn't fake.
That can't be faked.
She scrolls through his profile, stares at the sunrise profile photo and the short bio—Here to make your Friday’s wild—for only a moment before moving on to the content.
It's sorted from newest to oldest, and he always uploads every Friday night, hence the wry tone of his bio.
She doesn't know what she’s in the mood for.
That isn't really a problem, though.
What she really wants is to come, to loosen up and not worry about tomorrow, and she knows that whichever one of these stories she picks, she’ll get that.
She scrolls for a minute, past titles like A Lazy Sunday Morning and A Rainy Evening (creative with titles, CBeck is not, but it's a little endearing), until she spots a title that makes her heart leap.
A Balcony in Paris [127,589 plays]
45 minutes.
Tags include: M/F, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, Praise Kink, Dirty Talk, Vaginal Fingering, Oral Sex, Talking You Through It
This is one of Belly’s favorites.
She studied abroad in Paris for a semester when she was in college, and then did a summer internship there doing content management for a talent agency when she was in grad school.
She hasn't been back since.
Admittedly, CBeck’s version isn't really about Paris, but what he does mention—the natural light filtering in from the windows, the smell of bread wafting in from the boulangerie down the road, the way boulangerie rolls off his tongue as though he's said it a million times—is incredibly accurate. He’s either really good at research or has been there before.
She presses play, and she’s immediately lost in the fantasy as he starts by describing the day in Paris. Spending the morning together, seeing the sights, going to dinner.
The whole time, his voice is soft, low, and a little rough, like he knows what this is building to.
And then, halfway through, the tone shifts.
“Take my hand, step out onto the balcony,” CBeck says, 15 minutes in, his voice low and patient and a ribbon of heat unspools low in Belly’s stomach. He waits, and there’s a shuffle. Belly’s eyes slip shut, and it's like she's there: his warm, long fingers are in hers, then slide up to the pulse point in her wrist. He’d know just from that how badly she wants him. “I’m right behind you. Watch your step, that's it.”
Her heart is already racing, even though she knows what's coming.
“I booked this room as a surprise for our anniversary. The balcony has a view of the Eiffel Tower. Are you surprised?” he asks, his voice velvety and confident, like even though he's describing a surprise, he knows it’ll land.
It would land with me, Belly thinks, as birds chatter, followed by the sound of a door creaking open, then footsteps. She is so, so glad her roommates are out.
He hums, low and so quick that if Belly hadn't been anticipating it, she wouldn't have heard it. She doesn't know how many times she’s listened to this particular story, but she didn't notice that hum right away.
That hum ignites heat in her lower stomach.
“Good. I knew you would be,” he says, sounding as though he's right in her ear, really here, not just a recording through headphones. His hands on her hips, the balcony’s wrought-iron railing pressing into her stomach. “I was thinking . . .”
Tell me, Belly thinks, sliding the bullet vibrator beneath her pants and underwear, gasping when it slides between her slick folds. She hasn't even turned it on yet. Tell me, please, fuck.
“You look so beautiful tonight,” he continues. “Can I touch you?”
Yes.
He laughs, like he heard what she was thinking, then takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, does that hot little hum again. “You always want me to touch you, don't you? Where do you want me tonight?”
Where do you want me tonight?
Belly hasn't listened to this one in so long, long enough that she's forgotten about that.
Fuck.
Her eyes squeeze shut, and she spreads her legs a little more, enough that she feels the stretch of it. How would he fit between her legs, if he were here? is probably not a thought Belly should be having, but she does anyway and she doesn't really care. She knows this isn't real, even if the orgasm is.
“Here?” CBeck asks delicately. “Sweeping my hand across your collarbones, squeezing gently at your breasts? Oh, yeah, arch back against me, just like that. I love touching you, love watching the way you react to my hands.”
He moans, then, and Belly clicks on the vibrator. It’s already soaked, just from being pressed between the lips of her cunt. Her hips jerk off the bed from the vibrations (that, and the sounds of CBeck moaning).
“No one can hear us,” he reassures, his voice rough, and there are kissing sounds, and she shivers as she imagines his lips pressed to her neck or shoulder.
On nights where it takes Belly longer to get into it, she wonders how he does the sound effects. Does he kiss the back of his hand, or his wrist?
Tonight, she isn't thinking about that.
Tonight, her pulse flutters as he moans again, keeps kissing.
“I want to hear you,” he whispers, as Belly moans, like he's actually here and really giving her this direction. “Let me hear you, hm? That's it. Good girl.”
Belly’s mouth drifts open as the bullet vibrator presses against her clit, buzzing softly. Her back arches off the bed, her toes curl into the mattress.
He laughs easily, yet it’s almost like he’s surprised. “Oh, you like it when I tease you like this?”
Yes. If she said that right now, it’d come out on the edge of a moan.
She wishes, not for the first time, that she knew CBeck’s first name.
Obviously, she understands why he keeps that under wraps. Belly doesn't follow his social media (though she does lurk from time to time), but she can only imagine the kinds of DMs he’s getting without people knowing his name or seeing his face.
The things people comment publicly on his posts are almost too much, things like your voice is so goddamn sexy, makes me so wet (which, yes, is also true for Belly, but she’d never tell him) and i need you to fuck me asap.
She has no idea how he deals with it. How his partner—if he has one—deals with it, too.
She supposes that's none of her business.
It never will be, because she doesn't know him.
All she knows is the sunrise profile photo and the Here to make your Friday’s wild bio and his (supposed) long hair and long fingers.
She wishes she knew his name so she could have a name to moan when she comes, which is a thought she’ll take with her to the grave.
She shakes her head a little to clear it of those thoughts, rewinds the audio 15 seconds so she can better immerse herself in it.
“Oh, you like it when I tease you like this?” CBeck asks again, which is where the recording picks back up, his voice pitched a little lower than usual and edged with a heat that snakes down her spine. His hands are skimming over fabric, and with her free hand, Belly mimics the movement: her hand sweeps over the slope of her breast through her t-shirt, the hard peak of her nipple, the curves of her hip. She moves the vibrator up to her clit, and her hips jerk off the bed. “Well, as you know, I’m very good at that.”
Her cheeks heat, even though she's alone, even though he isn't really here. Even though this is a fantasy.
Yeah, she thinks, laughing a little to herself. You are.
“If I slide my hand beneath your underwear, how wet will you be?” he asks. “Will you soak my fingers already? You're usually so fucking wet for me.”
Why don't you find out? Belly thinks, a shiver running down her spine.
“Oh,” he says, then laughs that surprised laugh again, the one that Belly could, at this point, probably write a dissertation on. It fizzles through her, burns like a glass of whiskey. “Fuck, you're dripping already. Spread your legs a little more for me, there we go. I bet you’d take my cock so easily right now, wouldn't you? Yeah, that's right. That's my girl. Take my fingers, all the way inside that pretty cunt, just like—” He inhales sharply. “What's that? You want me to taste you?”
A beat of silence passes.
In that beat of silence, Belly’s stomach tightens with want, and her clit pulses against the vibrator. She gasps at the thought of his mouth on her, his tongue inside her, his moans vibrating throughout her body.
“Fuck,” she says, out loud this time, the word a moan. She’s so far gone, is focused only on his voice and the ghost of his hands over her skin. “Yes, please. Eat me out.”
“Turn around and face me,” CBeck whispers, and there's another swish of fabric, another almost imperceptible hm. “I want you to watch me as I drop to my knees for you. Don't look away from me as I eat you out, okay? Keep your eyes on mine.”
“I am,” Belly pants, and she's not thinking about the fact that she doesn't know him, that she doesn’t even know the color of his eyes. Are they brown or green or hazel?
She decides, for the sake of tonight’s fantasy, that his eyes are green. A brilliant shade of green, bright and clear like a forest in the summer. Mossy, easy to get lost in.
“I fucking love your cunt,” he muses, as he moans against the wet, obscene sounds that do actually sound a lot like being eaten out. “You’re always so warm and ready for me. My favorite place to be is between your thighs, fuck, just like this.”
He moans, and Belly echoes it, her orgasm climbing with each word that comes out of his mouth.
“Wanna fuck myself so badly,” he moans, the words muffled as though he is actually eating her out. (He isn't, but is it unhinged of her to wish that he was? Probably. And yet.) “Oh, you're mouthy tonight. Mm, I love when you get like this, begging for me. I’ll give you what you want, you know I will. Just answer something for me first.”
“What?” Belly breathes out, a flush climbing onto her cheeks.
“What do you think of the fact that I want the whole world to hear you, that I want everyone to know how I’m making you feel right now?”
I want this to stay between us, Belly thinks, probably delusionally. She’s never been much of a talker during sex, but not for lack of trying. Her previous partners hadn't seemed into it, so it’d fizzled out pretty quickly. But, through these audios, she’s found out it's something she loves. At least for now. I want you to be the only one that knows what I sound like when I come around your fingers.
The only person that's ever matched her in bed like this has been CBeck, and he probably isn't real.
He’s nothing more than a fantasy.
In the throes of her orgasm, she recognizes that.
“You want me to touch myself? Want to watch my hand close around my cock as I—” He cuts himself off with a moan. “Feels so good when you clench around me like that, fuck. That do it for you, hm? Just the mere thought of me touching myself? I wasn't, not yet. But I would have. I still will, if you want.”
“Please,” Belly whines, her fingers tightening around the vibrator, the word joining the buzz of the vibrator and her ragged breathing in her otherwise quiet bedroom.
Her orgasm is right there, ready to tear through her, and she knows what’ll send her toppling over the edge of it:
This image of him, his hand around his hard, leaking cock, rambling nonsense as he spills onto his stomach, still on his knees in front of her, those green eyes burning as they stay locked on hers while he comes.
“Please, touch yourself,” she says, fully pleading now, nearly out of her mind with how badly she needs to come. “God, I need you to—”
“Okay, okay. I hear you. I’ll touch myself for you. Just for you,” CBeck soothes, interrupting her rambling, and she'd forgotten this part: his zipper coming undone, his breath hissing between his teeth as his cock is exposed to the cool night air.
He swallows back another moan as he (presumably) touches himself.
“I’m not going to last long,” he grits out, and there's the sound of him fucking his own cock. He grunts once, twice, snarls yeah before his voice turns ragged. “I wish it was your hand, or your mouth, and I could—”
Belly’s orgasm sweeps through her at that, his long fingers and those brilliant green eyes and his voice, still coming through her headphones, though she can't process it because she's coming, and coming, and coming.
Her orgasm feels endless, the pleasure drawn out. Through her headphones, CBeck is still talking, and she tunes back in just as he moans loudly and says, “Fuck, I’m coming, I—”
And then he’s breathing heavily, just like Belly is.
Fuck, that was a good orgasm. She’ll probably dream of the heat radiating from his hands, his low voice in her ear. How would his mouth form the shape of her name? What would it sound like when he says it?
She shoves that thought away, not for the first time.
It's too personal.
He isn't real, Belly tells herself, as she lies there, her chest heaving, relishing in that very real orgasm.
Early the next morning, before the sun has risen, she heads to Penn Station to catch the Amtrak to Boston. She’s still tired; last night’s orgasm wore her out so much that she fell into a deep sleep, and by the time she woke up, she didn't remember if she’d dreamed or not.
It was the kind of sleep that clings to you long after you wake up, which is exactly what happens to Belly.
Two hours into the four and a half hour train ride, she falls asleep, which she doesn't even realize until the train has stopped and she scrambles for her phone, her heart pounding.
There's still an hour left before the train reaches Boston.
“Oh, thank god,” Belly whispers, sighing softly.
She did remember to swipe two books off her nightstand this morning, her bedroom lit by her phone’s bright flashlight like a lighthouse beacon, and she debates, just for a moment, starting one of them now.
That would be a bad idea.
As much as she loves to read, she doesn't want to fall asleep again and accidentally miss her stop.
So, she scrolls through her phone.
Okay, fine.
She uses that hour to stalk CBeck on Instagram.
@CBeck has 23k followers, the same sunrise profile photo as his Feverish profile, and the same bio: Here to make your Friday’s wild.
He has never posted a picture of his face.
He’s never even posted a picture of his hands, or his arm, or the tip of his forehead leading into his hair.
She has no idea what he looks like.
His Instagram isn't even really worth stalking; the only posts he has are collaboration posts with the Feverish Instagram account, which does a round-up every Saturday morning of stories from their top creators.
CBeck is always on there. Maybe that's obvious.
And the comments are always full of mentions of him: oh my god cbeck i need you and fuuuuuck your voice makes me so! wet!, things that people say from behind a screen but would likely never say to his face.
She sighs, careful not to accidentally like a post. It’s not like he would know or care, because he has enough followers that he’s likely overwhelmed with notifications every time he so much as collabs with Feverish, but still.
She just wants to stay anonymous.
Like he does, her brain tells her, as the train pulls into Boston’s South Station.
Which is true.
She gets it.
If she were in CBeck’s position, she’d want to stay anonymous, too. Hell, she’s not in CBeck’s position, and she wants to stay anonymous.
He is very good at what he does, and the thought of her doing that, and then having to be accessible to people because the content she’d put out isn't enough, well.
She wouldn't want to post on social media ever, either.
Outside the train station, it’s raining and cloudy and cold. Taylor and Steven are waiting for her outside, both of them leaning against their car’s passenger side.
“Belly!” Steven says when he sees her, immediately grinning. He wraps her in a one-armed hug, then pops the trunk for her to put her suitcase “Thanks for taking the time off work to celebrate.”
“Of course,” she says, grinning as she hugs Taylor quickly. “I’m excited.”
“Even if you had to text me 12 times about the dress code?” Taylor teases, sweeping her long blonde hair over her shoulder. She rolls her eyes. “At that point, I should've just given you Conrad Fisher’s number, so you could ask him.”
“I doubt Conrad Fisher is much of a texter,” Belly says, lifting her suitcase into the trunk. She doesn't even know Conrad Fisher, not really, but she could guess from the private Instagram profile with 149 followers and four posts that he also doesn't like texting.
“Why are we full-naming my best friend?” Steven asks, climbing into the driver’s seat.
Belly shuts the trunk and climbs into the back of the car. Taylor takes the passenger seat and the aux cord. Chappell Roan starts playing through the speakers.
“I don't know,” Belly says, because truthfully, she doesn't. She lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “He just sounds like the type of person that would go by his full name. I can't explain it.”
“He probably hates you,” Steven says under his breath.
“Don't listen to him, Belly,” Taylor says, turning and giving Steven a look. “He’ll love you.”
It's okay if he doesn't, Belly thinks, as they start the hour and a half drive to Cousins Beach. After this trip, it’s not like I’ll ever see him again.
*
Conrad Fisher thrives with a plan.
He loves the structure of it, gets a specific satisfaction from checking things off a list, knowing that he's in control.
He’s pulling his suitcase out of the trunk of his car—a silver Range Rover, impractical given he lives in Brooklyn and never uses it except for times like this—when a car pulls into the spot next to him, the thump of a song he can’t otherwise hear announcing their presence.
He inhales sharply, involuntarily.
They're here.
Which means she's also here.
This is totally fine.
He has a plan for this.
Keep interactions with her to a minimum. Just get through the next two weeks, and then you won't have to see her again.
(He doesn't know this yet, but this plan, like most of his, will go to shit the moment he turns around and locks eyes with her. This time, he’ll be expecting it. This time, he’ll be happy about it.
This time, it very well might change his life.)
The doors open.
He hears her before he sees her—”90 miles per hour is not an acceptable driving speed, Steven!”—and pretends to be reaching for something in the backseat so that he doesn't immediately turn at the sound of her voice. His shirt rides up with the movement, and the warm summer air is a balm against his skin, somehow. He pretends not to notice that, either.
This week will be a study in pretending, he thinks, just as Steven says, “Con! Hey, man!”
“Hey,” Conrad greets as he turns, and then his thoughts just stop. His eyes meet hers immediately, and everything around them slows and narrows until his world is comprised of only Isabel Conklin.
The last time he'd seen her had been over a year ago, in a bar in Brooklyn with dim lighting and good craft beer. Some of his Stanford friends were visiting, so he’d gone out with them.
He hadn't expected to see her, but across the room, people were chanting shots! shots! shots! shots! He’d been curious, so he turned, and there she was, in a knee-length pink dress (it’s mauve, she’d tell him snarkily a few minutes later, her eyes bright, her cheeks flushed, and he’d grip the edge of the table, her tone sending a shiver down his spine), wearing a sash that said It’s My Birthday! and a silver plastic tiara atop her dark, silky hair.
She was already looking at him.
Surprise had burst in his chest like a firework, and his mouth formed the shape of her name, but no sound came out.
Her eyes crinkled at the corners as she grinned. Someone handed her a shot, and she tipped it towards him, didn't look away from him as she tilted her head back. The movement exposed her neck, and he’d had the sudden unhinged urge to run his tongue up the column of her throat, tasting the sheen of sweat he could see even from here, feeling the flutter of her pulse against his tongue.
Her dress had thin straps, and his fantasy ran with that, too: his thumb sweeping it off her shoulder and exposing her breast, and he’d mouth hungrily at her exposed skin, his hands bunching in the fabric of her dress as he pulled her closer, needing his mouth and his hands on her like he needed air.
“Conrad?” one of his friends had asked, and he inhaled sharply, like a strong tide had pulled him under.
You’re drunk, he told himself.
He wasn't.
Now, a year and two months later, the silver exterior of Steven and Taylor’s car gleaming as she stands in front of it, her arms crossed, her eyebrows furrowed. She’s wearing a white sundress with cherries printed on it (fuck, she’s gorgeous, is his only thought, replaying over and over on a loop in his brain like a song stuck in his head), and he swallows hard.
“Hey, Belly,” he says. She blinks, and he's a foot or so away from her, close enough to see the mascara that flecks on her cheek. His throat is dry. He swallows again. “I didn't know you'd be—”
“You made it!” his mother's voice calls, and he turns just in time to see her practically gliding towards them, her sundress floating as she walks.
Conrad’s smile is immediate as she hugs him tightly, pulls away and brushes his hair out of his face.
“I’m so glad you're here,” she says, grinning for a second before she turns to the rest of the group, which is so far Steven, his girlfriend Taylor, and Belly. “I have to head to an event back in New York, so I won't be able to stay, but I just wanted to welcome you all here.”
Susannah lets go of Conrad as she hugs Steven first. Steven and Taylor have both been to the summerhouse before, and they've both met his mother.
Belly hasn't.
She’s suddenly as still as stone, her expression unreadable. She isn't looking at Conrad anymore; her eyes follow Susannah as she hugs Steven and then Taylor, tells them I’m so glad you're here with a warmth that indicates she really, truly means it. (From Conrad’s experience, she does.)
“I’ll take our bags in,” Steven announces.
Taylor rolls her eyes, though it’s affectionate and fond. “You just want first pick on a room.”
Susannah laughs, bright and musical. “It's your birthday week, Steven. Of course you get first pick.”
Steven grins at her. “Thank you, Susannah. It was good seeing you.”
Her expression softens. “You too, Steven. Happy birthday. Have a great time this week.”
“Thank you again,” Steven says, his voice soft and serious, a rarity considering he’s usually cracking a joke. “Seriously. It means the world.”
“Any time,” Susannah says.
With that, Steven and Taylor disappear through the front door, leaving Susannah, Belly, and Conrad standing in the driveway.
Conrad’s only here so he can say goodbye to his mother and tell her that they'll get lunch once he’s back in the city.
That’s all? his brain asks him.
Yes. It is.
“Belly,” Susannah says as she stands in front of her, her hands on Belly’s cheeks. Her voice is soft, and Belly looks like she doesn't know what to do with herself. Her fingers fiddle with what Conrad is pretty sure is a nonexistent thread on her dress. “It’s so good to finally meet you. I can't believe you're finally here.”
Belly smiles, though it's guarded. She’s shrinking into herself, unsure and nervous. Conrad’s never seen her like this; she's always been bright and fiery, her hands a blur of motion as she argues, her eyes bright, her cheeks flushed with the exertion of trying to prove her point to him.
“I’m glad to be here,” Belly says. “Thank you for having me, and for letting me stay an extra week so I can research. I think it’ll help a lot.”
Research.
“She’s finishing out Laurel’s series,” his mother had said, this past winter, as they were eating dinner at his tiny dining room table. Susannah’s voice cracked on series and her eyes were watery. Three years after Laurel’s death, grief still clung to her. “The publisher had sent her a list of ghostwriters, but Belly wanted to do it herself.”
“That makes sense,” he said, but what he thought was, That must be so hard for her. . His next words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. “Does she feel pressure to live up to Laurel’s legacy?”
His mother sighed, and shook her head. “I’d be surprised if she didn't. I was thinking about offering for her to stay an extra week in Cousins after Steven’s birthday trip, in case she wants to do research. Laurel had based the town in her books off of Cousins, you know.”
Conrad did know. Susannah had all of Laurel’s books on a shelf in the summerhouse, and while she never read them, Conrad had read all of them. The town was based off of Cousins Beach: the massive houses along the coast, the expensive organic grocery store, the boutique shops in the town center. Laurel’s descriptions were plucked right from her memory of Cousins and printed in ink right there on the page.
“Yeah,” Conrad had said. “I can stay and show her around, if you want.”
Susannah had smiled, took his hand, and squeezed it just once before she let go. “I’ll ask her. I think she’d love that.”
I wouldn't be so sure, Conrad thought.
He had no idea what possessed him to say it. It wasn't as though he and Belly were friends. In fact, they were the opposite. They argued every chance they had, became instantly annoyed in each other’s presence.
Then why do you want to spend more time with her?
He didn't have an answer for that.
He still doesn't have an answer for that, and now, Belly’s here.
Standing in front of him. Meeting his mom.
“I hope so,” Susannah says now, and even though her back is to Conrad, he hears the smile in her voice, the perpetual combination of warmth and wistfulness. “Conrad will be here with you if you need anything.”
Belly’s eyes snap to his over his mother’s shoulder. Her eyes are glittering in the afternoon sun, and there's an almost imperceptible wicked tilt to her mouth.
For a second, he can't breathe.
In the span of that second, he imagines her pressing that grin to his bare skin: his neck, his shoulder, his collarbone.
And then she looks away, back at his mother, and the fantasy vanishes.
“That's great,” Belly says. She almost sounds like she means it. Conrad knows better.
“In fact,” Susannah says, turning over her shoulder to look at him. “Conrad, you should give Belly a tour of the house.”
“A tour of the house,” he echoes. That's a terrible idea.
That thought must be written on his face, because Belly says, “That's a great idea, Susannah.”
She's looking right at him as she says it, still with that gleam in her eye and that tilt to her mouth.
“Yeah,” Conrad says, sounding far away even to his own ears. All he can hear is his heart pounding. His grip tightens on the handle of his suitcase. If the thought of giving Belly a house tour, being alone with her for ten minutes, affects him like this, how will he feel during a week alone with her.
Don’t think about it, his brain tells him. Stick to the plan.
He smirks back at Belly, because two can play this game. The two of them have been playing this game—annoying each other, provoking each other—for years, except for the night of her birthday. But her birthday had been a momentary lapse in judgement; it had been fueled by alcohol and the way Bally's fingers had brushed his hair when she placed the plastic tiara on his head and grinned at him.
He can't stand her. He's annoyed by her, and yet, here he is, about to offer to give her a tour of the summerhouse.
“I’d love to give Belly a house tour,” he adds, not looking away from her and trying to sound like he means it. “If she wants that, of course.”
“Sure,” Belly says, her voice cool even as her eyes are scorching.
“It’s settled, then.” Susannah smiles, oblivious to the tension between them. “Belly, have a great time, okay? Good luck with your book. And Conrad, I’ll see you back in the city in two weeks. I love you.”
“I love you, too,” he says, hugging his mom, not looking at Belly anymore even though he can feel her gaze on him, sharp and analytical.
Once Susannah leaves, Belly and Conrad stand there, watching her car disappear down the street.
And then Belly reaches for her suitcase, which is still stored in the trunk of the car.
Conrad’s at her side in an instant, his hand curling around her shoulder to nudge her out of the way. His hand meets her bare skin, and her shoulders rise just the tiniest bit. Is she holding her breath? “Let me.”
She huffs and rolls her eyes, crosses her arms again. Heat creeps onto her face, though that’s probably because the summer air is hot and humid. “I can get it myself, Conrad.”
“And so it begins,” he quips, his hand leaving her shoulder as he reaches for her suitcase, his shirt riding up with the movement of leaning across the trunk.
Her lips part, and her hands fall to her hips. Her eyebrows are furrowed again, and she looks irritated. “What's that supposed to mean?”
“So demanding,” he says. The wheels of her suitcase clatter as he sets them on the ground, and he doesn't break eye contact as he slams the trunk shut. “We’ve been alone for one minute and you're already arguing with me.”
Her jaw sets. “I’m not.”
As if to prove her point, she reaches for the suitcase handle and pulls.
The suitcase doesn't budge.
“Let go,” Belly says. Her hand slides over his, and a shock zips up his spine. Her fingers fit perfectly in the spaces between his knuckles, as if she's trying to hold his hand but isn’t letting herself go that far.
“Now you're just proving my point,” Conrad says, his smirk deepening. He doesn't let go. “I bet you can't go five minutes without arguing with me.”
She's quiet for a second. And then a smirk spreads across her mouth, slow and devastatingly hot.
He suddenly can't remember what his plan was, or why he had one, because all he wants is that smirk, pressed against his skin, her—
“Oh, yeah?” She’s fully grinning now, and she leans forward slightly, enough that he can see she's wearing a strapless bra. It’s white lace, and the sight of it makes him feel like he’s on fire. He looks away immediately, but he makes the mistake of looking at her face, and fuck, she's biting her lip, her eyes glittering. She knows what she's doing to him. Of course she does. “What’ll you give me if I do?”
Fuck.
That's hot.
“Bragging rights aren’t enough for you?” he asks breathlessly, the words scraping against his mouth.
Her eyes drift down his body, burning in their assessment. She's looked at him before, quick glances or heated, annoyed stares from across crowded rooms, but it's never been like this. Purposeful. Full of want so potent that she can't hide it, but he doesn't know if she's trying to.
I feel it, too, he wants to say, but he swallows the words as her eyes land on his waist, travel down to where his cock is hardening against his jeans.
Her cheeks flush, and her mouth splits into a grin, a flash of her tongue appears as she presses it between her teeth.
“Yeah,” Belly says, tossing her hair over her shoulder. If he didn't know better, he’d think she's breathless, but that's impossible. “Yeah, bragging rights are enough.”
She turns without saying anything else, without giving his brain time to catch up, and then she’s walking towards the house, her suitcase rolling next to her.
He hadn't even realized she grabbed it.
She’s standing on the second step from the top, her suitcase still on the ground, when she turns back to face him, one eyebrow perfectly arched. “Aren't you supposed to give me a tour?”
“Right.” Somehow, Conrad walks towards her. Somehow, he inhales her scent—vanilla perfume, floral shampoo, a little bit of sweat, a hint of staleness from hours on a train and in the car—and doesn't lose his mind. “Come on.”