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Jake doesn’t say much from behind me, so I do my best to ignore him while I work at the intricate strap and buckle that circle my ankle.
It’s always difficult to get the strap out of the buckle because the leather is too stiff to really bend. They’re adorable shoes, but they’re really a pain in the ass. I do my best not to think about the fact that I actually put these on in some lame attempt to impress Jake with my good fashion sense.
The reality is, he probably didn’t even notice.
I shove and pull and torture the strap, trying to force it to bend to my will and release the prong from its hole. My cheeks flush immediately at my own mental commentary.
All I can think about are the barbed penises I read about in J.R. Ward’s Black Dagger Brotherhood books. Now that was a prong that was hard to get out of a hole.
Still messing with the buckle and thinking about sex with a penis that actually, like, latches on, I’m caught off guard when Jake scoops me up into his arms and tosses me over his shoulder in a full-on fireman’s carry. The bathing suit is gone, but I’ve been messing with my shoe for way longer than would have been necessary for him to actually put it away in his bag somewhere.
I shriek, of that I’m sure, but finding actual words to shout at him is proving much, much harder.
“I… Well… I’ve never… Hey!” I ramble, trying to sound convincingly aggressive.
He snickers, of course, obviously shaken by my articulate and well-versed threats.
“Put me down,” I finally manage, but the shake of his head against my hip makes me seal my lips altogether.
“Nope,” he declines, hoisting me even farther up onto his shoulder to find a comfortable position while he walks. “You’re taking too long, and I’m hungry. I saw you try to work those sandals this morning before you came down onto the beach, and it took you a year and a half.”
“You saw that?” I whisper, unable to hide my horror that I wasn’t in my own world as I’d so naïvely thought then.
“Yes. I watched until it was too painful to watch anymore, so I’m not watching again. I’m all topped up on my quota for watching you mess with sandals for the day.”
“Well, then,” I huff.
He chuckles. “Don’t get all offended. Once we’re at the diner, you can take your sweet time fixing it. Hell, I’ll even help you fix it if you want me to. But I’m not waiting anymore here. I can’t.”
I shut my mouth and narrow my eyes at his back. He doesn’t seem fazed, but that could have something to do with the fact that he can’t see my glare.
Regardless, we walk the rest of the way to the restaurant like that—me tossed over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and silent.
When we get to the entrance, he sets me on my feet again, and miraculously, my sandal seems to be free from sand. It’s almost like his carrying me shook it all loose.
I don’t say anything, instead following him into the hostess stand and then walking right past it like we own the place. I look back at the Please Wait to Be Seated sign with uncontrollable do-gooder anxiety, but Jake doesn’t even pause. I do my best to keep up.
We take a booth in the front of the restaurant, grab menus from their spot behind the condiments, and scan the food options in silence.
If it’s possible, it seems like we’re actually in the middle of a little tiff. We’re practically strangers, and yet it feels very much like we’re an old married couple in the midst of a spat.
“Have you ever been here before?” I ask in an effort to break the tension.
His smirk is sharp and sarcastic. “A time or two.”
“What?” I ask, annoyed by his attitude.
“I come here every morning.”
“Oh,” I say with a smarmy raise of my eyebrows. “Well. How was I supposed to know that?” I question but shield my annoyed expression with my menu.
Jake just snorts in response.
“What’s good here, then, oh great patron?”
His eyes dance as he pulls my menu down from in front of my face, one corner of his mouth hitched up. “Are you mad at me?”
“What?” I ask. “Why would I be mad at you?”
He shakes his head, the other side of his mouth now engaging in the smile. “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking you.”
“I’m not mad,” I lie.
“Are you sure? Because you sure seem mad about something. Maybe me carrying you here?”
“I’m not,” I lie again. “I’m perfectly fine.”
“Oh,” he says, nodding dramatically. “Fine. Gotcha. That changes everything.”
“Don’t mock me,” I challenge.
“Come on, Holley,” he says through a knowing chuckle, gesturing to my face with one hand. “You’re mocking yourself. You know as well as I do, ‘fine’ is one of the most mischaracterized words in the English language. Fine is worse than bad. Fine means I should pack up my shit and go.”
