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“What?” I say, turning to Graham. “You couldn’t possibly beat me.” I hold my phone up, showing him my picture.
His eyebrows raise when he sees mine. “I told you I’d kick your butt.”
“How?” I’m seriously baffled.
“I guess Morgan knows talent when she sees it.”
“Mine has to be better than yours. I caught a hawk flying over the horizon.” I point to my screen.
He raises a shoulder. “I guess that wasn’t enough.”
“Well, show me yours,” I demand.
“No,” he says.
I let my phone drop. “You sent her a picture of your washboard abs, didn’t you?”
“What?” He’s looking at me like I have two heads.
“You did! While I was taking mine, you lifted your shirt and snapped a selfie. Morgan wouldn’t be able to say no to that.”
“I have on double layers. It would have been hard to do that,” he says. “But thank you for the compliment.”
“It wasn’t a compliment; it’s merely an observation.”
“Okay,” he says, like he’s not buying it.
I ignore him, not giving him the satisfaction. Have I stared at his pretty torso when we’ve been swimming? Of course. Sue me.
“I’m gonna need to see proof,” I say, holding my hand out for his phone.
“I think I’ll let you stew in your failures.”
“Graham Shackwell,” I say, forcing his name out through gritted teeth, each syllable sounding like a struggle.
He turns in his seat. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a terrible loser?”
“Of course. Have you met me?”
He chuckles, shaking his head.
“Let me see your picture. I showed you mine; now you show me yours.”
He sucks his lips between his teeth.
My lips pull upward, even though I fight them not to give me away. I purposefully said it to goad him, and it worked. “Say what’s in your head, Doctor,” I taunt him.
He keeps his mouth shut, still moving his head back and forth.
“You know you want to.”
“I don’t. I’m an adult.”
I chortle. “Just show me the picture.”
“Fine,” he says, and pulling his phone out of his coat pocket, he taps on a couple of things before turning his phone to me.
I rear my head back when I see it. “It’s a freaking sunset.”
