The Truth About Jack (Entangled Crush) Read Online Free PDF Page B

kayakers tooling around in the river, we’ve got the entire beach to ourselves. She must have parked in the other lot because I didn’t see her Volvo when we drove up. Do I have the nerve to talk to her? As soon as the question forms, I know the answer: No way.
    I wasn’t always like this. Freshman year, I dated the cutest girl in school, Lucy Hazelwood. She was a sophomore, president of her class—an older woman. She made that prim pleated skirt and those bright white knee socks look positively illegal; everyone at our Catholic school lusted after her. I fell hard for Lucy, and I thought she fell for me. After Will died, though, she avoided me, as if having a dead best friend might be contagious.
    I couldn’t help but wonder if what she’d really liked about me all along was the legendary wealth of my family, the prestige of the Sauvage name. Between my mom’s massive inheritance and the success of Sauvage Vineyards, everyone in Sonoma County equates my family with big money. Lucy was always hinting about expensive jewelry or handbags she coveted. If I didn’t take the hint she’d pout for days. I was fourteen years old, not exactly rolling in expendable cash. Besides, it felt weird having to prove my love with expensive trinkets. My suspicions about Lucy were probably right, because two weeks after I left Saint Mary’s, she hooked up with Todd Bellagio, a senior who drove a tricked out Porsche. I pretty much swore off love after that. Losing my best friend and my first love in the same messed-up month was enough to send my heart into deep freeze.
    Dakota stands suddenly, yanking me back to the present. The tall, pale grass whips around her legs. I can see she’s rolled up her jeans and taken off her shoes. There’s something in her hands—a wine bottle? Is she drinking? It’s not even noon. She walks with quick, purposeful strides down the sloping dune toward the ocean, her legs moving quickly. There it is again, that determined gait, like a little solider marching into battle. On impulse, I hide behind the nearest rock, ducking down and peeking over the top. I know, lame. The old me, the pre-Lucy me, would just stroll right up to her and introduce myself. Something about the situation feels too private for that, though, like I’d be intruding on her solitude.
    From my hiding place, I watch her run toward the ocean like she intends to charge right in. Of course that’s ridiculous. She’s fully clothed, the waves are monstrous, and the water’s so cold she’d probably die of hypothermia. Still, the way she hurls herself down the beach, shoulders tipping forward, legs flying, it’s easy to believe she’ll launch herself into the churning surf. To my relief, she stops abruptly just as her bare feet touch the water’s edge. Then, as the wave retreats, she runs with it, chasing the foam. I can feel myself smiling as I watch. There’s something childlike about her movements, the emphatic stomp of her feet as she splashes, arms outstretched as if preparing to take flight. She moves with the grace of an animal, unselfconscious, sensual. I’ve never seen anyone quite like her, someone who doesn’t think before she acts. I wonder what it’s like to feel that free.
    Just as a fresh wave begins to crest, she pulls back her arm and launches the bottle into the sea. It arcs through the air and lands with a splash in the smooth water beyond the surf. Then she turns and hauls ass back toward the beach. She’s fast, but not quite fast enough. The wave catches up with her, soaking her rolled-up pant legs to mid-thigh. She lets out a little squeal, something between a scream and a yelp. I let out the breath I didn’t even realize I’d been holding. The last thing I want to do right now is plunge into that chaotic surf to save her. It’s more than selfish relief, though. For the second time since I laid eyes on her this morning, I find myself feeling strangely protective of this girl I don’t even know.
    She must