Read Online Wrong About the Guy by Claire LaZebnik - Free Book Online

not here.”
    He was just as good-looking in person as in his Instagram selfies. Better, because his smile was warm and directed right at me. He was wearing blue board shorts (basically the adult version of what Jacob had on) and a dark gray tee with an unbuttoned oxford shirt over it and flip-flops. Simple black Ray-Ban sunglasses blocked what rays were left from the almost-setting sun. Most guys my age didn’t know how to dress—they tried too hard or not hard enough. Aaron seemed to have effortlessly found the simple but classy sweet spot.
    I wanted to talk to him more—preferably alone—but that wasn’t going to happen. Jacob had left Mom’s lap and made his way over and now he was reaching his hands up for me to take him. I held him while Michael interrogated me about what kind of cars my friendswere driving; he said he needed to buy Aaron one. Then Mom said she thought we should go swimming before we ate because it wasn’t a good idea to go swimming after.
    I wasn’t too concerned about that from a safety standpoint, but it did occur to me that a big salty hot dog would probably make my stomach puff out, and I wanted to look good in my bikini, so I seconded the “let’s swim now” idea.
    Crystal turned down the invitation to join us, which didn’t surprise me, since she was wearing a ton of makeup and her long, thick hair had been blown silky smooth. Mom also passed: she would have killed for a pool to paddle around in during the hot Philadelphia summers, but now that she actually had one in her own backyard, she’d taught herself to loathe it by doing too many laps for exercise.
    Megan was taking care of the baby, and Luke was busy grilling, so that left me, Michael, and Aaron up for a swim.
    The pool and hot tub were on the other side of the backyard, on a lower level overlooking the canyon and separated from the rest of the house by a rose garden and an iron fence. We walked back there together, then separated at the pool house, which was divided into four small chambers: three changing rooms, each lined with a mirror and a chest of drawers, and a bathroomwith a shower. The changing rooms were stocked with towels, sunscreen, pool toys . . . even swimsuits, in case a guest had forgotten to bring one. Lorena checked once in a while to see if anything needed to be replaced.
    It took me about three seconds to pull off my cover-up, toss it on top of the chest of drawers, put my hair in a bun, and grab a towel. Back outside, I dropped my towel onto a chaise longue and then sat down at the edge of the pool and waited for Michael and Aaron to emerge.
    We kept the pool at eighty-five degrees, which today felt almost too warm. I dangled my feet in it and leaned back on the palms of my hands, keeping an arch in my back and neck—it was the most flattering way to sit wearing a bikini, and I wanted to look good when Aaron appeared. Which he soon did, since all he had to do was take off his shirt and flip-flops.
    He dropped down into a sitting position next to me. “How’s the water?”
    â€œNice.”
    He put his feet in. “Ahh. It’s been way too long.”
    â€œWhen was the last time you swam in a pool?”
    â€œAbout an hour ago. Right before we left to come here.”
    His father emerged, looking lean and toned in his bathing suit, and dove right in the deep end, then emerged in a crawl, which he continued down the length of the pool.
    Aaron stood up. “Are you a jump-right-in kind of person or a slowly-get-acclimated kind of person?”
    I clambered up. “Slowly get acclimated. Or not get acclimated at all and stay dry in the sun.”
    â€œIn that case, let me help you.” He caught me around my waist and spun me out toward the pool. “Ready?”
    I nodded, so he gave me a gentle shove and I let myself tumble in. He jumped in right after and I scolded him for splashing me inadvertently, and then when he apologized,