Beach Lane - By Melissa de la Cruz Page 0,9

seen a Bentley in her life—and in two minutes in East Hampton, she had already counted two.

Everyone moved at a leisurely, languid pace. Elegant women with psychedelic silk scarves wrapped around their heads carried fluffy white dogs in their Hermés pocketbooks. Balding men with women less than half their age walked arm in arm down to the nearby park. Giggling teenagers wearing nothing but the tightest tube tops and the highest platform wedges darted in and out of traffic.

“Do you have the time?” asked the girl beside her. Mara did a quick double take. The long blond hair, the annoyed expression, the tennis racket . . . She’d seen this girl before, but where?

“It’s ten after five,” Mara replied, discreetly checking out the girl’s outfit. Mara wished she had thought to wear a little skirt and flip-flops. She was wearing her leather cowboy boots in a misguided attempt to impress. It was ninety degrees and she was boiling.

The girl nodded and started paging through her PalmPilot.

“Excuse me,” Mara said.

Blondie raised an eyebrow without looking up from her task.

“Weren’t you in Port Authority this morning?”

“No.”

“Oh. Sorry. I thought I might have bumped into you this morning. . . .”

“No. Wrong person,” she said curtly, sliding down to the opposite end of the bench to make her point.

“Oh, okay. Sorry,” Mara said. They lapsed into an awkward silence.

The two of them sat on the bench and studiously ignored each other.

A silver Aston Martin Vanquish convertible pulled up in front of the bench, and the two girls immediately sat up a little straighter. A tall, tanned guy wearing a holey Martha’s Vineyard T-shirt and cutoff board shorts eased out and walked barefoot on the sidewalk. Cue: dreamboat music.

Guys that like that are so out of my league, Mara thought. Not that she was in the market for one—she did have a guy at home. What was his name again? Jim. Right.

Of course, the hottie went straight up to that prissy blonde who’d been so rude to her earlier. It just made sense.

“Ryan Perry! It’s been too long,” she cooed.

“Hey!” Ryan said, bending over for a quick hug. “How was the Jitney?”

“What Jitney? I rode in with Kit.”

“Very cool. How’s he doing?”

“Not bad. There’s a party tonight. At Resort,” she said, self-importantly flipping her hair.

“Yeah, yeah. I heard.” He grinned. “I got the e-vite.”

“Maybe I’ll let you be my date,” she teased, basking in the glow of his attention.

Ryan Perry was the type of guy girls swooned over and guys considered their best buds. That he was superlatively good-looking was intrinsic yet somehow irrelevant to the totality of his charm. He had that sunny, good-natured disposition that came from being incredibly lucky both in looks and in life. He wore the mantle of privilege carelessly and would have been just as appealing driving a Pinto as a Porsche. He was the kind of guy who was loyal to his girlfriends and could always be counted on to provide the biggest liter of tequila to any party. Of course, he could also be counted on to empty it.

Mara watched them flirt without the slightest bit of envy. They might as well have been from another planet as far as she was concerned. Mara was always afraid she was just a “sorta.” You know, “sorta cute,” “sorta smart,” “sorta popular” but nothing special. So when Ryan suddenly called her name, he had to repeat it three times since she was so shocked to have even been noticed, let alone recognized. She wasn’t the only one. The other girl was now looking at her with renewed, if slightly hostile interest.

“Mara? Mara Waters?” Ryan asked, giving her the full benefit of his dazzling dimples. One on each cheek. Mara could hardly bear it.

“Uh. Me?” Mara squeaked.

“I’m Ryan Perry,” Ryan said, offering his hand. “My dad was supposed to come get you guys, but he had to do something for Anna. This your suitcase?” he asked, picking up her oversized roller bag.

“Uh-huh.” Mara nodded, dying as her bag went clackety-clackety-clack all over the cobblestone tiles. She almost wanted to disappear when the bag careened wildly and the magazines she’d stuffed in the back pocket went flying. She swore the first thing she would do when she got paid was find out where to get her hands on one of those cute canvas monogrammed tote bags everyone seemed to carry around here.

Ryan held his door open so Mara could climb inside.

“So . . . have you guys met?” Ryan asked.

“Yes,”