Free No Brainer ( The Darcy Walker Series #2) by A.J. Lape Page B

his hot pink trunks, lounging back against the black seat. “I tried to dodge but was in the middle of a scheduled enema. It was awesome.”
    Yeah, enemas were the bomb.
    I lay flat-backed on the tube, like road kill that had recently been splattered. After a few bleary moments and more Kumbaya, Colton docked at the wharf, pulling us by the rope to the side of the boat. His eyes focused on Zander and me only briefly, but spent most of the time shooting daggers straight through the heart of Dylan. Wearing red swimming trunks, they appeared vastly washed out compared to the hue of his angry face.
    “Dylan!” he screamed, pointing at his jaw. “Don’t ever dive off the side of the boat again when it’s moving! You could’ve gotten ripped apart by the propeller. For all I care, you could’ve been sliced in two, but if you make your mother cry, you’re a dead man.”

    Dylan hoisted himself onto the wharf, extending his hand for me, too self-assured in his own abilities. He calmly said, “I cleared it, Dad.”
    His father gently grabbed my opposite elbow, pulling my punch-drunk behind to a standing position. He muttered to himself, his voice a little more in control. “Quit being so cocky, son. One day, it’s going to come back and bite you.”
    Dylan definitely shot off some cocky, but it’s just that he never really failed at anything.

    Homes in Florida could be pink, peach, coral, or some other random rainbow color, and it remained acceptable. Outside of a few historic areas in downtown Cincinnati, if you painted a house pastel in the Midwest, people would swear you were having an LSD flashback.
    The Taylors’ 15,000 square foot home away from home was located off Serendipity Club Drive. Dylan’s family called this “home” several weeks out of the year, including spontaneous weekends and major holidays. Plus, any other time they wanted to enjoy the Benjis, they probably used as toilet paper.
    A French architect designed the mansion, and when Colton discovered it was named Maison de Saule , or Home of Willow , he yanked it off the market quicker than a shark devouring chum. I gather he considered it a good omen that would keep his globetrotting sister home. Trouble was, half the time no one even knew where she parked her stilettos.
    I called Willow the goddess of love because she played matchmaker to anyone she met. Oddly, she seemed to be the one that couldn’t find true love herself. She currently dated polo playing, Viscount Henry Ainsworth of the British Highlands. Sounded important and royal, but for all we knew, he could’ve bought the title off the Internet.
    The outside of Maison de Saule looked like your typical Florida home with palm trees, magnolias, and white stucco. The inside was white and airy with a contemporary Grecian flare. Large columns, reminiscent of the Parthenon, supported the structure that included a den, media room, living room, nine baths, library, and office. The kitchen came equipped with stainless steel Sub-Zero refrigeration, black marble countertops, top-of-the-line Wolf gadgets, and a bar area that seated eight.

    Outside, a four-car garage and unattached guesthouse sat to the left of the property. An infinity pool adorned the backyard with a lanai overhead, hot tub, and beautiful view of the golf course winding around the lake. Perhaps what I liked best, though, were the seven bedrooms. The majority had french doors that opened to a marble lakefront terrace, perfect to watch the sunset framed by willow trees.
    Since boating stopped before it truly got going, the four of us finished out the afternoon poolside. Lying on a black padded chaise, Sydney had sashayed out fifteen minutes ago wearing a white string bikini that qualified as little more than dental floss. Colton asked her to change. Currently, she hadn’t moved a muscle, and odds were she wasn’t going to. My black halter top bikini clung more to the concept of “covering your flaws.”
    Colton still acted somewhat