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“Oh, thank God,” I mutter under my breath, standing to full height and wading my way to the stairs at the end of the pool. “Great class,” I call over my shoulder to Stella and Sal as I glance back. To my surprise, though, the two of them are twisted together like a pretzel, my mother’s mouth connected to his in a way I should never have to witness. Obviously turning around to save my sanity only influenced them to take their canoodling to the next level.
“Oh geez,” I grumble as I make my way up the steps.
Ryan chuckles, holding out a towel he’s procured from a nearby chair and spreading it out so I can walk my wet body right into the center of it. The bag of lunch sits off to the side, and his hands run gentle strokes down my arms through the outside of the towel.
I smile my thanks, stepping back and adjusting the towel tightly around my body, tying it off just above my breasts.
“Well…let’s hear it. How have they been today?” Ryan asks, putting his hands to his hips.
“Handsy,” I reply. And it’s the truth. If my eyes have been burned out of their sockets one time, it’s a million, and Sal and Stella make the horny housemates on MTV’s The Real World look like fucking llamas with no libido.
Ryan laughs, his white smile looking even wider than normal thanks to the reflective effect of his aviator sunglasses. He’s cute—painfully so—and the more time we spend together, the harder it becomes not to mount him like a puppy in heat.
I move my eyes up and down the line of his suit pointedly. “How was work?”
He smirks. “You know, it’s the weirdest thing…it wasn’t handsy at all.”
I roll my eyes and mock laugh. “Good for you.”
“I never thought I’d be saying this, but maybe it’s a good thing we’re going to that dinner at the clubhouse tonight. Surely they’ll cool it in public a little bit.”
I jerk my head over my shoulder, and Ryan follows the motion, his eyes looking out toward the lovebirds behind me.
“We’re in public now,” I remind him helpfully, and he winces.
“Jesus. I wonder if Betty Matthews has a citation for public indecency.”
“Betty Matthews is an old hag.”
Ryan grins, and I shade my eyes against the sun to get a better look at it. “What? Why are you making that face about Bitchy Betty?”
“Probably because I’m picturing you going head-to-head with Betty in your driveway,” he answers, making my jaw unhinge in surprise. “Not gonna lie, it’s kind of hot.”
“Oh my God!” A surprised giggle jumps from my lungs. “How did you know…? Wait a minute! You were watching me?” Then it hits me. Before he realized who I was, he’d said, I wouldn’t do that if I were you. It was only after he realized I’d stolen his taxi that he got tight-lipped. “You totally set me up that day!”
He bites his lip to fight his smile. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Liar.” I shove at his chest with two hands and he barely budges, but he grabs my hands and pulls them to his chest. “You knew she was going to ride my ass for leaving that trash can out, but you just let me find out for myself, didn’t you?”
He shrugs and winks. “Carly, it’s not my fault you don’t like following rules.”
I try to break free to hit him again, but he just squeezes my wrists tighter and laughs.
“There’s no need for violence, sweetheart,” he teases, drawing me in so we’re standing even closer, my towel coming untied and falling to the ground. The heat of his body feels twice as powerful through the thin material of my suit, and the cadence of my breathing picks up. “And also, I didn’t like you back then.”
“But you like me now?”
“I can tolerate you,” he corrects, but even I can hear the teasing tone of his voice.
My responding laugh makes a few strands of my wavy red hair move in front of my face, and before I know it, he’s reaching out to brush the rogue curls out of my eyes and gently tuck them behind my ear.
“You can tolerate me?”
He nods. “Something like that.”
“Well, that’s good, I guess. As long as you brought sandwiches, I can probably stomach you too.”
“Sandwiches, chips, drinks, and chocolate chip cookies for dessert. They’re probably melted by now, because somehow, I forgot that Florida’s thermostat is run by Satan himself. But I’m sure they still taste good.”
“Oh, Ryan,” I coo playfully, teasing, “You’d better stop turning me on so much, or we’re going to end up with a citation for public indecency.”
“I take it cookies are your love language?” he says with the sexiest chuckle.
I nod. “Actually, sweet treats of any kind.”
