We walk along the shore, and I keep sneaking glances at his profile. His sharp jaw, covered in a layer of rough stubble, his longer, scruffy hair that somehow works on him. And his eyes. God, his eyes. I’m so happy he’s already taken his contacts out now that we’re alone together.
My stomach does a happy little flip as his gaze slides to the side and captures mine.
“What?”
“Nothing,” I muse, aware that I’m probably staring at him with heart eyes.
“Jude…?”
My chest warms at the way my name rolls off his tongue with such familiar ease.
“Slade,” I purr back.
His gaze sharpens, his pupils blowing wide and stealing my breath. Every time I say his name, he reacts differently. Sometimes, he closes off. Others, he looks broken. And then there are times like this. When he looks at me with a dark, smoldering heat that I feel all the way to my toes and to my pulsing clit.
I’m going to get it good tonight. And I can’t wait.
I go up on my toes and press a kiss to his mouth, sighing against him as he stops walking to kiss me, cupping one cheek in his palm. The driftwood rests against the base of my spine, held inside his other hand.
“Nandi left money for you again this morning,” I say, suddenly remembering I haven’t told him. The bills are still folded neatly in the inside pocket of my bag for him.
“Thought she might have,” he says, fondly.
“Why do you leave it every day knowing she’s just going to give it back?”
“Because it makes her feel good, giving it back to me.”
I study his schooled expression. I might not know his biggest secrets, but they’ve helped me get to know him well enough to recognize when he isn’t telling me the entire story.
“Then what do you do with it?”
He clears his throat, as if contemplating how to put whatever he’s about to say into words. “I might have a bank account set up in a fake company name.”
“What?” I scoff.
“It’s purely for the money Nandi insists on giving me back,” he grumbles like he’s tried everything he can to get her to keep it and all his attempts have failed.
“You’re saving it for her?”
He tips his head. “Not exactly.”
“Then what?”
“Every few months, she gets an official looking letter telling her she’s won a prize from some competition or other. She’s always entering them and loses track. Then she gets sent a check from this company that handles all the winning payouts.”
“You did all that so you could get her to keep your tips?”
“They’re her tips. I only do the beds. She struggles lifting the mattresses.”
“Oh God. Please tell me something awful. You’re starting to make me believe there are actually good men out there.” I smile.
“I’m not a good man, Jude.”
The serious tone makes me frown.
“I don’t believe you.”
He looks away, his jaw hardening.
