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“Why are you wearing clothes?” I question.
“You’re alive!” she shouts again, and this time, I can’t ignore it.
“Yes,” I say slowly. “And so are you. But you’re extremely lucky to be. You almost drowned out there.”
“I almost drowned because you were drowning.”
“No.” I shake my head and almost laugh at the ridiculousness of her response. “You didn’t drown because I know how to swim, and I certainly don’t go out into the ocean in business clothes.”
“I went into the ocean in business clothes because you were drowning!”
“No,” I say again. “I wasn’t.”
“Yes. You. Were,” she retorts, her voice stubborn. “I watched you go under and never come up, and I went into the ocean to save you.” I open my mouth to refute her again, but she points an accusing index finger in my face and rushes to speak again. “I saw it with my own eyes, so don’t you go saying no again!”
“I was holding my breath. Not drowning,” I explain.
“What kind of person goes underwater and holds their breath for that long! There’s no way—”
“A former Navy SEAL,” I cut her off. I don’t mean to be impolite, but so far, this conversation isn’t going anywhere. The only thing that’s going to help it along is clarity.
That closes her mouth—in fact, it goes so far as to make her suck her lips in over her teeth.
For the first time, it’s silent, and both of us look down to realize I’m lying half on top of her, my hand at the bare, exposed skin of her waist.
Goose bumps form under my fingertips just before I pull them away and push back to my knees in the sand. I put my ass to my heels and roll up to my feet.
She watches the movement avidly but doesn’t venture to make any of her own.
“Are you going to be okay?” I ask again from my position above her. The sun is bright in my eyes, but I can’t seem to turn away from her.
She nods, biting into the flesh of her bottom lip and laughing a little. Mascara runs down her cheeks and settles into her dimples, and her sandy, wet hair clings to the sides of her face.
She looks like a wet rat. Somehow, though, I can still tell she’s extraordinarily pretty.
I reach down and offer a hand. She accepts it readily, and I pull her up to standing.
“Thanks for trying to save me,” I say, a teasing smile playing at the corner of my lips.
She laughs outright at herself and sinks her head into her hands. “Oh yeah. This’ll be a story for the grandkids, for sure. Assuming I ever have any, that is.”
Her comments are self-deprecating but laced heavily with humor. I can’t help but laugh and stick out a hand. “I’m Jake, by the way.”
“Hold on…” She stares down at my hand like it might catch on fire. “What did you say your name was?”
“Jake,” I repeat.
Her face freezes briefly, and then she breaks out into full-blown cackles.
Okaaay. This is one of the weirdest mornings of my life.HolleyThe guy who was drowning—more like, the guy you thought was drowning, even tried to save from drowning, but who, in all actuality, saved you from drowning—is him, Jake flipping Brent.
The exact man I came here to find.
“Of course you are,” I blurt out through another round of laughter.
Of all the people on the planet—of all the people on this beach this morning!—and I had to make a fool of myself with the actual guy I’m supposed to meet. There’s no running. There’s no hiding. There’s no Don’t worry about it, Holley, you’ll never see this guy again. This is Grade A, prime choice embarrassment, and it’s going to give me horrible indigestion for the next several weeks.
Oh my God! I cannot believe myself.
“What? Is Jake a bad name?” he asks through a raspy chuckle, completely behind the curve of our fate. “I can go by something else if that’ll make you feel better.”
Oh, so he’s incredibly handsome and charming? Sounds about right at this point.
My eyes don’t miss—can’t miss—the way his fingers move the zipper of his wet suit down, down, down, from his neck to just slightly below his belly button. With the kind of ease I do not possess, he slips his arms out of the sleeves and lets the material hang loose at his waist. His nearly full sleeve of tattoos on one arm is unbelievably vibrant against his tanned skin. And the rest of him?
Biceps and pecs and a six-pack, oh my!
This guy is forty? Good grief, his body looks twenty-five, tops…
Get it together, you little floozy! Stop staring at your assignment like he’s lunch!
I shake myself out of my beefy-muscles-induced trance and clear my throat. “No, no,” I backtrack, trying to figure out how to save face when I’m pretty sure it melted off in the ocean. Or, at the very least, when his fingers played tug-of-war with his freaking wet suit. “Jake is a fine name. It’s just…well… I’m Holley,” I reveal. “Holley Fields.”
