A rustling sound behind me has me turning, phone in hand. The door to the pantry is wide open. Before I can make a move, a man inches out, back still turned, with his hands full of six party-sized bags of chips. Our eyes meet at the same time. God, his are so pretty, all bright and apple green. It’s Langley, the puppy from the beach who hit me with a soccer ball. Damn, he looks like he just walked off the set of a Frito-Lay commercial. His messy blond hair is windswept, and he has those tanned, cut muscles. Board shorts rest low on his narrow hips, showing off a white strip of skin. I want to
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