The step neutralizes our height difference and we’re eye to eye. “You have sex with women you don’t care about because you can’t have sex with the one you want?”

He shrugs but doesn’t deny it.

“All of those housewives that feel you up at the club. They’re stand-ins for Kristin?”

His dark gaze flits away, and my eyes narrow. There’s more to that story, but his stubbled jaw is doing that grindy thing that tells me he’s not going to tell me what.

I turn around again, moving down the hallway until I halt in front of the guest room that my parents always put my “projects” in. “This is you.”

He shifts my pink bag higher on his shoulder. “Where’s your room? I’ll take your bag.”

I take four steps backward. “Here.”

He rolls his eyes. “We’re next door to each other.”

“Yup. And Kristin’s bedroom is one more door that way, so if you try to sneak into her room, you’ll have to walk past mine, and I’ll know.”

“How will you know? I’m pretty sure you sleep like a log.”

I frown. How would he know that?

But it’s true. There’s no way I’d hear a grenade outside my room much less a late-night lothario out for an illicit hookup.

I push open the door to my room, and Michael follows me inside. “Thanks for carrying my bag, workhorse,” I say. I reach out to pat his biceps again, just on principle, but he’s onto me now and sidesteps.

“What’s that?” he asks.

“Hmm?” Damn, I’d almost gotten a glimpse of the tattoo.

He points toward my bed.

I turn and see the offending garment carefully laid across the yellow bedspread.

I sigh. “That, my new friend, is Bellamy Fourth of July garb.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “It’s … small.”

“Tell me about it.”

For as long as I can remember, the younger Bellamy females have thought it’s “fun” to wear matching red, white, and blue bikinis.

I have yet to partake.

Michael picks up the halter top. “I think I like the Bellamys.”

“Don’t get too excited,” I mutter. “I’m not wearing that. Or, on second thought, do get excited, because Kristin will for sure be wearing that and only that all weekend.”

“Don’t tell me you’re one of those girls that doesn’t wear swimsuits in public,” he says.

Well, not if I can help it. But he looks grumpy, so I relent. “I own a swimsuit.”

“Sure, but did you bring it?”

Damn, he knows me well. How did that happen?

“Yes.” Reluctantly.

He sets his duffel bag on the ground by his feet and sits on my bed. “Let’s see it.”

“You want to see my bathing suit?”

He crosses his arms and waits.

“Fine,” I mutter, leaning down and unzipping my bag, rummaging around until I find the dreaded ensemble.

I hold up the sensible black Speedo one-piece. It’s one of those kinds with the “slimming technology” in the torso, which is really just a modern way of saying waterproof girdle.

And I will be wearing a cover-up that covers all of it, but I don’t tell Beefcake this.

“No,” he says.

“No what?”

“You’re not wearing that.”

“Um, actually—”

He stands, ripping the swimsuit from my hand and tossing it aside.

I watch as the enormous swatch of black shiny fabric settles in a puddle on the ground. “Rawr. That was sexy. Is that how you disrobe women, because—”

He points toward the bed. “You’re wearing that.”

I peer around him. “It’s a glorified pile of string.”

“I thought we were supposed to be working on your confidence.”

“Um, sure, confidence to wear skinny jeans, not a star-spangled G-string. Plus, my cousin Heather always buys mine too small. I think she doesn’t want to insult me by buying my real size, knowing that I’ll be mingling with a bunch of XS stick figures.”

He walks back to the bed and picks up the top in that reluctant way guys have with women’s clothing. “Medium.”

I hold up my hands, as though to say point proven. “I don’t wear a medium.”

Good on me for not cringing as I admitted it.

“Maybe you didn’t last summer.”

“Um, this summer is just like last summer. All the summers are the same, actually. Think of my summers as supersized, not medium.”

He shakes his head. “Last summer you hadn’t spent an entire month with a personal trainer.”

I roll my eyes. “Look, Beefcake, you’re good at your job, but you’re no miracle worker.”

“You’ve lost weight, Chloe. You just don’t know it because I forbid the scale and because your clothes are all elastic, baggy, and terrible.”

I’m torn between wanting to defend my wardrobe and asking him to repeat that first bit. You’ve lost weight.

Was it true? My mom had made a couple comments to that effect, but, um, hello. It was my mom. Nothing mothers say about their daughters’ appearance, positive or negative, should be taken entirely seriously.

But the thing about Beefcake … he’s not really one for kindness. And he doesn’t lie.

Reluctantly I reach out and touch the bikini.