“My mom took Orly into town to get their nails done,” Rafe reports. “We’re on our own. There’s snacks and drinks inside if you want.” Rafe points in the direction of the cabana. “And I’ve got sunscreen here if you need it.”
He turns his head to look at me and does a double take.
“Whoa! What happened to your hair?” he laughs.
“My hair?” I pat my head, shaking it. “What is it? Is there a bug in my hair?” I jump up and whip off my cover-up, shaking it vigorously just in case. Rafe tilts his head and watches me curiously.
“You okay, Kenna?”
“I’m fine. I just fell asleep on the patio before, and a June bug attacked me.” I can’t escape the urge to give my hair another shake and rake my hand through it, anxiously. “Are you sure there’s not another bug in my hair?”
“No, no.” Rafe pushes up on his elbows and lowers his sunglasses. “No bugs. It’s just …” He sits up and gestures for me to come closer. “Come here.”
I step closer to his chair.
“Closer,” he says, removing his sunglasses.
“Cut it out, Rafe. Just tell me already if there’s a bug in my hair.”
“Sit down.” He takes my hand and pulls me to sit beside him. I can smell the suntan oil and pool water on his skin, and some of the water droplets from his wet hair fall onto my shoulders as he sits up next to me and starts to rub my neck with one hand. With the other, he hands me his mirrored sunglasses.
“Take a look at yourself,” he says. “Your hair is wild. Like a lioness.”
“Oh!” I say. “Yeah, it does that. It’s a curly hair thing. That’s why I usually wear it up.” I relax slightly for a moment, until I remember who is rubbing my shoulders and neck so expertly. With two hands now.
“I like it.” He pauses for a moment and rests his chin on my shoulder. “It’s incredibly sexy, Kenna.” Then he scoots even closer, positioning himself behind me, swiveling his hips and placing a thigh on either side of me.
“Jesus, you’re tense,” he mutters. “It’s only been a day since the spa. Is this okay? More pressure?”
I’m dreaming, right? This is not actually happening, is it?
“Why are you being so nice to me?” I ask, biting back a moan as he digs into that spot behind my left shoulder blade that is always locking up after a long shift or session with a heavy lens.
“Why wouldn’t someone be nice to you?” He sounds puzzled.
“Well, you weren’t particularly nice when you tried to slay me with a whisk.”
“I thought you were an intruder.” Rafe runs his hands up and down my bare arms before repositioning himself and working on the small of my back.
“This is not fair,” I say, shaking my head.
“You can do me next,” he says. “I don’t mind. My calves are like rocks.”
“Are they?” I lean forward and reach down to cup a hand behind each of his muscular calves to check. “They feel like normal calves to me,” I say, losing my battle against arching my back as his hands work circles out toward my hips. I feel his calves flex beneath my fingers and squeeze, working the muscles rhythmically in time as he’s working mine.
Oh, God, this feels good. Too good. I’ve got to focus. Focus on something else. Anything else. The podcast? What is Jackson saying on the podcast? It’s still playing on the little speaker.
“This is the Second Chance episode,” I say, “the one where Jackson was teasing Chelsea about having a crush on Dean Riley.” And then it dawns on me. “Oh! Dean told you about the podcast?”
“Bingo.” Rafe pauses a second, and I love the way he says the word, with just the slightest hint of an accent. “Here, let me put some sunscreen on you. You don’t want to burn.”
“What is that stuff?” I ask. The slick, fragrant oil is only making the sensation of his hands all over my body more intoxicating.
“It’s oil, but it’s got a pretty high SPF.” He pours a generous amount into his palm. “We don’t want to miss any spots.” His hands skim my collarbones, and his fingers trace the ridges of my ribs with the lightest, most sensual touch, making me forget for a moment how “bony” and “awkward” I am. I don’t care. I don’t even care. He twirls a long finger around the tie of my bikini top, stretching the tightly tied bow looser, as if he means to take the top off.Does he mean to? Should I let him?
“Lioness.” He pushes back my hair and rubs oil on my neck, along my breastbone, and into my cleavage and across the tops of my breasts. Yes. Yes I do want him to take my top off now. I want him to see me naked. The oil Rafe is rubbing on me is magical. It’s making me sparkle like him. It’s rearranging my DNA. It’s—
“It’s Xander,” I say, spotting movement on the drive.
