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Briar
Tonight I’ve only had one glass, so I can’t blame the wine for the way I feel right now.
Flirty. Curious. Hungry.
I can’t blame my MO either, since flirty isn’t my usual speed. When I go out with friends, I’m usually the designated driver. The mom of the group. My dad’s constant warnings about being reliable and dependable above all stuck with me.
But I’m just so ready to say screw it for the rest of the night.
As Hollis’s question lingers in the hazy night—wanna share—I shrug and let my fuck it playlist be my guide. “Well, I do owe you one,” I say as the song grows louder.
His lips curve up in a thoroughly kissable grin as he recalls the favor I promised him the night he saved my cat with his friends. His eyes stray to the bubbling jacuzzi in front of us, steam wafting up in invitation. “Then I’ll cash in that favor for a hot tub.”
Company in the form of a kind and very easy-on-the-eyes man works for me. I’ve been so tightly wound since the breakup, trying to keep it together as I tried to balance searching for an apartment, launching the app, and prepping for the festival. But reading that awful article tonight tipped my stress right over. I want to forget how it felt to read Steven’s cutting words.
Perhaps Hollis can help. Hollis, with his easy smile. His surprisingly thoughtful attitude. His humor.
And, as I look at him a beat longer, his sea-blue eyes, his muscles for days, and that constellation of blue ink-spot bruises that travel across the fair skin of his shoulders and abs.
I want to touch them gently, ask if they hurt.
Yes, he’s a very nice distraction from my shitty night. Even Donut thinks so. She hasn’t let him out of her eyesight. She’s stretched on the wooden planks of the deck, watching his every move as he heads to his duffel wearing nothing but that low-slung towel. He grabs the bag and slings it on his shoulder. “Be right back.”
I didn’t stare before, wanting to respect his privacy, but I peek now, cataloging the breadth of his chest, the strength of his legs, and most of all, the crook in his grin as he heads inside, leaving me with a wink and a fizzy feeling in my chest that I can’t entirely blame on the Chablis.
The guy is lightning fast. I barely have a few seconds to catch my breath, since he’s striding right back out onto the deck wearing yellow board shorts and holding a mug. I look him up and down appraisingly. “You’re speedy.”
“I’m fast at some things. Not others.”
Well, that’s an invitation, and I take it. “What are you fast at?”
Setting the mug on the wood planks of the deck, he dips a toe in the water. “Skating. Talking. Listening to a woman.”
“And what do you take slowly?”
He steps into the hot tub, releasing a slow and satisfied breath as the water caresses his legs. “Getting into a hot tub. Enjoying a meal. Making sure everyone is satisfied,” he says, letting that last one float temptingly over to me.
He sinks down, sighing appreciatively as he disappears into the water. I join him, sitting across from him on the other side as my pop playlist cycles to the next tune—an upbeat number on moving on, full of brassy vocals and power chords.
Hollis dips his head back in the water then slides his hands through his hair and groans. Watching him enter a hot tub is one of the sexiest things I’ve ever seen. It’s exciting to watch a man enjoy something so unabashedly. So often men seem to hold back, unless they’re watching or playing sports. They rarely, or so I suspect, show their true selves. But there’s something refreshingly honest about his visceral enjoyment, then the words, “Fuck me. This is niiiiice.”
“Would you like a minute alone with the hot tub?”
Laughing, he shakes his head. “Nope. Hot tubs are like singing and showers. Best enjoyed together.”
“I look forward to your morning shower serenade then,” I say.
“You’ve been warned, Briar.” He stretches his arms across the back of the tub. “Thanks for sharing. I needed this.”
“Rough game?”
“Definitely.”
“You should be doing more yoga,” I tease.
“You’re not wrong.”
“It definitely helps with muscle stiffness,” I say.
