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First Aid
Greer
So that’s how a kiss is supposed to feel.
I stir in my bed, still feeling that kiss on my lips, even though it’s morning and there’s a persistent ray of sunshine filtering in from the gauzy white curtains that are billowing in the ocean breeze.
I haven’t had a lot of kisses, just this one boy last year back at school behind the local pub when my friends accepted the offer of a cigarette. And then Tristan.
Both experiences were sloppy and not entirely pleasant, and they left me with the feeling that kissing wasn’t this big of a deal after all.
Until Brady.
It isn’t just how handsome and perfect he is with the looks of a beach god, all hard muscles and tan skin.
There’s something about Brady.
He’s interesting, and I want to know more about him. He gives off this aura of confidence, but he isn’t cocky and arrogant like Tristan. It’s hard to explain.
All I know is that I want, no, Ineedto kiss him again.
I touch my lips with hesitant fingers, feeling them still burning at the memory, and I have a full body reaction to it. It’s not the revulsion Tristan caused, this is different. My heart is racing, beating wildly against my rib cage, my nipples are hard and straining against the lace of my nightie, and there’s a warm, throbbing feeling between my legs.
I don’t know what to do, and I wish I could go next door to Chelsea’s room, tell her how I feel, and ask her what I should do to make Brady like me. But I know I can’t do any of that. Chelsea and I may be sisters, but we certainly aren’t friends. She made it abundantly clear since I stepped out of the arrivals at the airport.
The closeness we used to have as kids is all but gone, and it feels like the rift that I felt opening between us her senior year of high school only got bigger while she was at college.
I can’t tell my mom either. We’ve never been close. She has more in common with Chelsea, but she and I seem to come from different worlds.
The only person I’ve always confided in, who has known all my secrets so far, is Daddy, but it’s more than obvious that I can’t talk to him about boys. Especially not when the boy in question works for him. I don’t want to jeopardize Brady’s job or get him into trouble.
So I’m on my own on this one, and the only thing I can think is to go find Brady and ask for a surfing lesson.
Yeah, I know. It’s super obvious and super lame, but it’s the easiest way to spend time with him without having to explain it to my parents.
Not that I think Daddy would have an issue with me being friends with Brady per se. He isn’t a snob, but I understand that Brady is his employee, and I know that simple fact makes things more complicated.
It’s decided. A surfing lesson is the perfect thing to do.
I get out of bed, throwing on my favorite red bikini, jean shorts, and a tank top. I’m going to avoid breakfast because I’m not in the mood to spend any time with Tristan, especially after last night.
For a split second, I wonder if signing up for surfing lessons with Brady will cause problems between Tristan and me since he did offer to teach me how to surf.
But first off, ew. If Tristan couldn’t keep his hands and his tongue to himself during a simple walk on the beach, I can only imagine how he’d behave with less clothing as a barrier between us.
I shudder at the thought. Truth be told, Tristan shouldn’t try anything else with me after my knee made solid contact with his balls last night, but I suspect the problem isn’t just that Tristan doesn’t know how to take no for an answer. Tristan doesn’t even entertain the idea that a woman might not want him, so I know for sure that if I were to spend any one-on-one time with him, he’d try his luck again.
I leave my room and use the same shortcut I took with Brady last night, heading toward the staff quarters before I can talk myself out of it.
Brady seemed to have a busy schedule, so it’s best to ask him before just going to sign up at reception. Plus, I have the perfect reason to go see him. I’m going to thank him for helping with Tristan and walking me back to my room last night.
I’m almost at the end of the part of the beach that’s equipped for the guests, and the staff cottages are starting to appear in my view, when I stop in my tracks.
Two hot, shirtless, slightly sweaty guys are digging a big hole in the sand.
They don’t see me until I’m close to the edge of the hole, stopping to look at how their sculpted muscles bulge and ripple as they handle heavy-looking shovels.
I couldn’t tell who they were from a distance, but now I’m surprised to see that one of them is Matt, the chauffeur, and the other is Drew.
