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She eyed Jack overtop of the book in her hand. He was shirtless and wore a pair of faded navy board shorts. Mirrored aviators kept his eyes hidden, and he carried snorkeling gear in one hand and a red cooler in the other. He set the snorkeling gear down close to the water and turned toward her.
Donovan’s heart skipped and immediately she tensed. Okay. Why was he walking toward her? They weren’t friends. They weren’t even close.
He didn’t stop until his shadow blocked the sun.
“Huxley, huh?”
“You sound surprised,” she said turning a page.
“I am.”
“Sorry to inform you that this Arkansas hick can read.” Lord, he better not quiz her on Huxley, because so far she’d barely managed to get through the first chapter. And the only reason she was reading it was because Grace had bet her that she’d never get through it.
Thinking of the traitor, Donovan’s mouth thinned. She damn well was gonna collect whether she finished the book or not. After pulling this stunt, Grace Simon owed her big time.
“Let’s not get off on the wrong foot already. I just meant that it’s heavy stuff for vacation. I thought you’d have a stack of those trash magazines you used to like.”
“Nope,” she said, glancing up. “I’ve been on the cover of most of them every other week since Miami, so I avoid them like the plague.” She shrugged. “I don’t enjoy reading stories about myself, because most of them are lies.”
“I get that,” he replied.
She snorted.
“You still do that.”
“What?”
“That sound that tells me that you think I’m full of shit.”
“Y’all need a sound to get that?” Her voice. It was sugar sweet.
“Jesus, Donnie. Can’t we agree on something as simple as the media?”
“Your situation with the media is a hell of a lot different than mine, and you know it.” Suddenly angry, Donovan tore off her glasses and sat up. “They sensationalize my life. Every little stupid detail. Last week they wrote about my trip to the goddamn gynecologist. The gyno for Christ sake. Half of the United States thinks I’m pregnant.”
“Are you?”
“What? Pregnant? I’d have to be having sex to be pregnant.”
Oh. My. God. She did not just tell him that. Rushing forward, she tried like hell to cover up her slip.
“They write about the most ludicrous things. Apparently I’ve had plastic surgery. Even my mole isn’t real, and uh, what woman would want a big ol’ black mole on her face? Oh, and all I do is drink vodka. I hate vodka.”
“Whiskey is your drink of choice.”
“And drugs? I smoked a joint once when I was skipping math class in high school. Once. And I hated it because it made me paranoid. I’ve never snorted coke or tried heroin or anything else for that matter. Never. I’ve never slept with any Dallas Cowboy and certainly not one named Hank and I sure as hell haven’t slept with that actor from that show. Shit, if I had sex with every single man the rags have said I did, I’d never have time to do anything else besides—“
“But you’re not,” he interjected.
“Huh?” She was so caught up in her tirade that she paused to catch her breath.
And was that some kind of cocky smile on his face?
“You’re not having sex with anyone.” She blinked. That darn dimple of his was enough to drive her crazy. “Or so you said.”
“Well I sure as hell am not sleeping with you and according to most of America, including your mother, that’s a good thing. You know, because Donovan James is so evil, and Jack Simon is the fucking bees-knees.”
“What’s my mother got to do with it?”
