“I could kiss you, Carlos.”
“Please don’t, sir.”
“Wish me luck,” I say, and chug the rest of my beer before I slide back into the water. I dive under, needing a moment’s peace to collect myself before approaching her.
I’m a little rusty. I haven’t been with anyone since I moved here. Mostly been too busy to try, but something about this girl is making me think it’s time to get back on the horse. Or just between a nice pair of legs.
I pop out of the water and start toward her, but over halfway there, the mystery woman lowers her book, and I freeze.
I know her.
I’d know her anywhere.
“Abby?”
3
ABBY
“Abby?”
My heart stutters in my chest.
I would know that voice anywhere. In a crowd of one thousand people, I could pick that voice out from a hundred feet away.
Everything inside me freezes, like I’ve been blasted with ice. If breath is moving through me, I can’t feel it.
I close my eyes. Maybe I fell asleep at the pool and I’m dreaming. Maybe I will open my eyes and the person saying my name won’t be here, at the same resort as me. Maybe he’ll be bald or time will have been unkind to him.
But I open my eyes and there he is. Miles Barker is at White Sands Resort in Cabo, Mexico. He’s not justhere. He’s half-naked and walking toward me, pushing through the water. I said I would be open to whatever the universe has for me on this trip, but I didn’t mean my college ex-boyfriend and first love.
My mouth goes dry as he cuts through the water. Time has been more kind to him than maybe anyone ever. He doesn’t have a full beard, but he has well-groomed scruff, and a silver chain dangles from his neck, drawing attention to the body it rests on. I haven’t seen him in years, but I don’t remember him havingthat many muscles. For fuck’s sake, his muscles have muscles. His chest is so chiseled it looks almost fake. The desire to touch that work of art is so strong that I have to curl my fingers and press my nails into my palm to resist. His abs are prominent, but softened a little by…age? Beer? Who knows. Who cares?
He places his hands on the side of the pool and hoists himself up. I practically whimper, watching the muscles in his forearms and biceps work to haul his body out of the pool.
I lick my lips as the water cascades over him, rolling over his tanned skin. My eyes travel over him freely, my sunglasses hiding the exact things I’m looking at, and the last thing my eyes land on are the way his shorts have tightened in all the right places from the water, suctioning to his body, showing off the curve of his thighs, the bulge of his…
Oh, fuck.
I am in so much trouble.
“Miles?” I say, like I’m not one thousand percent sure it’s him.
“Holy shit, Abby Ashe. What are you doing here?”
He stands in front of me, pool water dripping off of him in a way that can only be described as cinematic. From behind me, the sun lights him as if he’s at some kind of model shoot. My mouth feels dry, and I fight the urge to lean toward him, to be closer to him.
“Oh, um, it’s…my honeymoon.”
The bright excitement on his face fades faster than cheap fabric after one wash cycle. And then his face transforms. His lips curl into a devilish grin, his eyes darken, and he sticks his hands on his hips.
Jesus, those hands. They easily engulf mine—that detail is not difficult to recall. He used to be able to wrap his middle finger and thumb around my wrist and his fingers would overlap. His hands seem somehow bigger now than they used tobe, thicker and meatier, but I guess being a professional athlete will do that to a person. Veins pop out on the backs of his hands, snaking up his arms, telling stories about his strength. He used to be strong enough to pick me up and put me in all sorts of positions, and just thinking about it now has my breath coming a little quicker, my cheeks distinctly warmer than they were mere minutes ago.
“Honeymoon, huh? Where’s your husband?” He says “husband” like it’s a dirty word. He doesn’t even look around for my non-existent spouse; he holds eye contact, challenging me. A familiar flame of defiance flickers to life in my belly. Miles always had a way of riling me up, and it wasn’t always in a bad way.
College me would probably find something witty to come back with, but he feeds off that shit and I don’t think it would be wise to stay in this conversation for a long time. Not with the way my body is overwhelmingly signaling me to please for the love of god reach out and touch the marbled statue of a man in front of me.
I cross my arms over my chest and lean back into the reclined chair, fighting those old instincts.
