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He’s so muscled, but not in a way that seems vain. It’s cowboy muscles, as I call them. Real-life, sports muscles. I-want-to-lick-them muscles.
“Just help me, will you? I don’t want to end up like all these other sunburned schmucks.”
“You don’t burn. You tan.”
He’s had enough of my arguing. He reaches down, picks up my leg, and moves it out of the way so he can sit between my thighs. It’s the most sensual position we’ve ever been in. His butt is nearly touching my…YOU KNOW. My jaw is on the sand, but he doesn’t know that because his back is to me. Thank god.
While I’m still recovering my wits, he nabs my crossword book and pen out of my hand.
“If you’re so keen to get rid of me, I’d start applying.”
I puff out a breath filled with indignation and grab the bottle of sunscreen.
Surely, this is against the rules somehow. Does HR track us over the summer? Will they catch wind of the fact that we’re sitting close, practically naked, dripping wet, and oh dear, I still haven’t actually started putting sunscreen on him. I’m just sitting here staring and I’m aware of it now and I should really do something, like move, but I just can’t.
Noah’s back is so broad and smooth and olive—no, brown—no golden.
“You good back there?”
I uncap the sunscreen and squirt some onto my hand.
“Couldn’t get the top open,” I lie. “Now hold still.”
I start with his shoulders near his neck because that seems like a safe enough zone. I try hard to barely touch him, tap tap tapping the sunscreen onto him, but it won’t sink in unless I press down, so before I know it, I’m really going for it, rubbing and caressing and covering every last inch of him.
His skin is as warm as it looks. I can’t get enough.
His focus is down on the crossword as he pens in various answers. It’s like my touch doesn’t even affect him.
“So why are you avoiding me?” he asks suddenly.
My hand stills on his back.
“I’m not,” I insist.
Although I completely am. Running from the dining hall last night, not letting him into my room, sending him an email rather than opening the door and having a face-to-face conversation with him—it’s Avoidance 101.
But instead of admitting that, I deflect.
“You never replied to my email last night,” I point out, like this is all his fault.
He pauses from filling in an answer and looks out toward the ocean. “I didn’t think there was a reason to. You weren’t going to let me finish what I wanted to say in the dining hall.”
My heart starts to race and I toss out the first excuse I think of. “I hate arguing.”
“You? Hate arguing?” He pffts. “You could win debate team nationals. You missed your calling as a lawyer. You live for a battle of wits. What’d you write down here next to the clue for four across?”
“Will & Grace because I wasn’t sure. I was going to come back to it at the end.”
“Right. I’m stumped on this one under it. Six-letter word for scaredy-cat.”
Is he kidding?
“Coward.”
He hums and then writes.
“Oh, okay. What about this? Six-letter word for someone with their head buried in the sand. Starts with an A.”
“What? I have no idea. It starts with an A? You’re sure?”
“100% sure.”
I mull it over while I continue applying sunscreen. I’m doing his lower back now, near his swim trunks. I have to shift a little to get every spot. I’m really taking my job seriously. If I were being graded, I’d get an A++. There’s a chance I missed my calling as Noah’s Personal Sunscreen Applicator.
“Oh! Got it,” he says, scribbling in the answer and then pushing himself up to his feet. He drops the crossword book and pen onto my chair and takes back his tube of sunscreen. “Thanks.”
I wave him off and lean forward, curious about the answer. As an English teacher, I pride myself on my vocabulary. How could he have solved the clue before me? I mean, sure, I was a little distracted there. But then I see the word written in big bold caps across the top of the page: AUDREY.
It’s a clear message. Noah thinks I have my head buried in the sand. Oh, and look at that, scaredy-cat wasn’t a clue either. He also thinks I’m a coward.
I take my pen to my name and scratch it out until there’s a big chaotic swirl of black lines across the top of the page. There.
Better.
Chapter Fifteen
Noah calling me a coward is a tiny insidious seed that sprouts and grows roots while I sit under that umbrella the rest of the morning. I try to push it from my mind, telling myself it was nothing but a joke, but my brain won’t drop it.
