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“You don’t have to walk so fast. You’re hurting me.”
He slows his pace, barely. Still, I feel like I have to hustle to keep up with him. My wedges don’t help, and I beg him to stop so I can yank them off. Once they’re in my hand, I have no trouble keeping up with him.
We reach the door of the villa and he unlocks it. A dark, quiet living room waits for us, and I immediately see everything through new sexy eyes. He could bend me over the back of that couch or prop me up against that TV stand. We could go at it against the sliding glass door or right outside, on our private beach terrace.
I know he’s thinking the same. I know he’s about to haul me back up into his arms and finish what we started at the restaurant.
Instead, he groans as if in pain, takes one look at me, and throws his hands up in the air.
“I think you should go to bed, Lindsey.”
BED?!
Now? Is he kidding?
“Why?”
He doesn’t answer.
Instead, he steps toward me, grabs my shoulders, and starts to gently push me in the direction of my room. “I want you to go into your room and shut the door and lock it. Can you do that?”
I shake my head as all the momentum of the last hour seeps out of me.
“What—why?”
“Because, Lindsey, I think you’re a good girl.”
I’m not, I want to tell him.
I left that girl behind in Boston.
But it’s too late.
I’m inside my room and he’s shutting the door as he leaves me in here.
Without him.
Five
One thing is for certain: if I wasn’t his sister’s best friend, Noah and I would have had sex four times over last night. If we were just two strangers who had met at that restaurant and started to dance, we would have been tugging our clothes off and romping in the sand within forty-five minutes of saying hello.
The issue is that Noah respects me too much. He doesn’t want to hurt me, and he likely doesn’t want to suffer the consequences of having a vacation fling with me, knowing we’ll have to face each other once we return to our normal lives in Boston.
The thing is, this isn’t just his decision.
What about what I want?
Last night, as I slipped into my pajamas and brushed my teeth, my stomach ached with the feeling of missed opportunity. I debated going back out into the living room and pleading my case.
I’m not a good girl!
Look, I’ll show you!
That’s when I would have performed some kind of sexy striptease, during which he’d fall to the floor in a puddle of lust while losing his mind, thus giving me the upper hand.
Instead, I cracked open the mini bar in my room, snagged some overpriced peanut M&Ms, and tucked myself right into bed.
I’m angry at myself for wimping out.
Especially as I roll onto my side and face the ocean just in time to see Noah finishing his workout. He must have gone on a run already. He’s slick with sweat. Shirtless. Tan. He’s using the shallow ledge of the terrace to aid him with push-ups. It’s a hard job to lie in bed and watch his muscles ripple in the early morning sun. A hard, hard job. I reach for the rest of the M&Ms I didn’t finish last night and take in the show. He’s set up a yoga mat—probably found in some closet in the villa I haven’t bothered searching through—so he can continue with some crunches next. Yes, I think. Better make that six-pack an eight-pack.
Another piece of chocolate melts in my mouth as he finishes a set and then stands, wiping sweat from his brow with a white towel.
His eyes glance to my bedroom window and he catches me red-handed. (Literally—some red M&Ms have melted onto my fingers.) I immediately squeeze my eyes shut, praying the tint on the glass makes it impossible for him to see in and witness me spying on him, but a moment later when I pry one eye open, he’s still standing there, eyes on me, smiling.
Ugh.
I sit up and shove the blankets off my body so I can walk to the sliding glass door and unlock it. I push it aside a few inches and smile.
“Restful morning?” he teases.
I roll my eyes. “I know you probably think I’ve just been lazing around all morning, but I’ll have you know I woke up at the crack of dawn and worked out for like two hours before showering and getting back into bed.”
“Is that right?”
“Uh-huh. No one’s more dedicated to fitness than me.”
“You’ve got an M&M wrapper stuck to your shirt.”
I look down and, sure enough, the crinkly yellow wrapper is stuck to my pajama top, just over my left boob.
I yank it off and toss it behind me.
