Love Me Crazy by Camden Leigh Read Free Book Online

wore what to the yacht club and OMG so-and-so is dating you-know-who.
    “I don’t feel like people tonight.” I shrug his hands off my shoulders.
    “ Just me then.” He grabs my hand and pulls me behind a huge magnolia, leading me toward a wrought iron table and two chairs tucked under the canopy of limbs.
    I slide into one of the chairs.
    “Wait here, I’ll be right back.” Quinn jogs back the way we came and I lay my head on the table.
    I shouldn’t be caving to his request. Where has my strength gone? I’m usually the first to put my foot down. This is so wrong.
    Quinn returns and places a huge candle on the ground. He drops a bag in my lap and pulls out the tines on a telescopic skewer. “No outdoor dining is complete without toasted marshmallows.”
    He plucks a marshmallow from the bag, then slips it on the skewer. He reaches for another but I beat him to it, holding the fluff ball out to avoid any intentional or accidental lap contact from happening. His fingers glide over mine. He grips my hand, curving my fingers around the huge marshmallow. Slowly, he pierces it with the pointed skewer tip and twists my hand until I’m sliding the marshmallow onto the tine. “More?” he whispers.
    And I’m worried about a brush of his finger across my upper thigh or his knuckle against my stomach? I stare at him in disbelief, unable to comprehend how freaking hot that just was.
    He smiles a seductive half smile, forcing his dimple into full bloom. He pulls me from the chair and hand on my back, thumb tracing my spine, helps me hold the skewer over the flame.
    Every nerve in my back tightens, sending waves of heat rolling away from his touch, stretching out like magic fingers made of pure light. I’m reading too much into this, right? Or is this his nature, the gentlemanly charm he shows all his guests?
    It’s safer to think the latter, but he’s remarkably hot as hell, someone to tell stories about, fairyland-style, because getting my fix from someone like him would be a once in a lifetime opportunity. When the sun rises, poof, he’s gone. And then there’s the fact he doesn’t hold a candle to the other guys in my life. He holds a flame gun.
    I should curb his expectations, assuming he has some that involve us doing the horizontal hanky-panky. Limiting time with him would do the trick, but how when we’re sleeping under the same roof?
    “Tomorrow’s Friday. Ellie said our standing tradition of beach bonfires and drinking games lives on.” Quinn rotates the skewer in my hand when the marshmallow sags toward the flame. “Are you game?”
    “I can’t. I need to run errands and work on the seating chart.” I wag the skewer in the air, killing the flame eating the sugar. As fabulous as a day “stuck” with Quinn sounds, I can’t neglect my responsibilities. I need this job. I have bills and rent.
    Walking away from my autopilot life under my parents’ control meant forfeiting a bottomless treasure chest. Though they send checks monthly, I’ve refused every cent. Touching their money means spiraling into their world—lavish accessories, designer clothes, a standing invitation at Harvard, since they practically own the research facility.
    “That’s a shame. The beach burn is relaxing,” Quinn says, pulling me from my memories. “Plus, redheads and alcohol make an interesting mix.” He runs his fingers through the curl draped over my shoulder. He spirals the auburn strands around his finger, then releases them, letting the curl loosen like silk ribbons on a spool until it falls back against my shoulder.
    Pointing at my chest, I say, “I can assure you, this redhead mixed with any percentage of alcohol will be a night of stupid decisions followed by a hangover from hell and embarrassing stories I don’t remember starring in.”
    “That sounds kind of fun; a break from reality.” He points the skewer end at me.
    The marshmallow, cooked to a perfect light brown, smells like the candy store I’d