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That sounded like bullshit too, especially considering what she'd told me earlier about her ex complaining she got too excited about sex. What kind of asshole was that guy? Mara was hot. More than that, she was a good person. She deserved praise, not insults from sniveling turds.
"I lied to you," she said, still staring down at our hands. "Well, maybe not outright lied. I let you believe I can't afford to buy another plane ticket to go home. The truth is, I don't want to go home because I'll get another lecture about how I screwed up yet again. Accidentally booking a vacation at a nudist resort? I'll never hear the end of it."
"Then stay." I lifted one hand away from hers to cup her cheek. "Hang out here with the crazy naturists. Chill out, enjoy the sunshine, go on nature hikes, whatever. I guarantee you nobody here will ridicule you or say you're not good enough. The guests are good people, like a big family, and they'll make you feel welcome."
And I'd never met anyone who needed a vacation more than Mara Severins.
She chewed on her lip, finally looking at me again. "I'd love to stay here. Is forever too long to book a room for?"
"I think we can arrange that."
"Thank you, Ollie." She gave me a tentative smile. "You're the nicest man I've ever met."
"Just doing my job." Now who was full of shit? I didn't say all that stuff to Mara because it was my job. I liked her, that's why I said it. "You can call me Oliver if you want. I usually don't like it when people use my whole name, but I love the way you say it. Especially when we're having sex."
Her cheeks dimpled with the cutest smile. "Okay, Oliver. I like your name, by the way. It's sexy."
My manly parts were about to get active again, so I had to make up a dumb excuse to get away from her for a few minutes. Just until I cooled down. Her smile, and her statement that my name was sexy, had way too much of an effect on me.
"Excuse me for a minute," I said, sliding off my stool. "Gotta hit the head."
The best I could hope for was that some time alone would let me figure out how to survive being around Mara, indefinitely, without walking around with a giant hard-on twenty-four seven.
Was that a pig flying past the window?
I returned to the kitchen a few minutes later, with my problem mostly under control, and found Mara standing at the sink. She was gazing out the window. I came up beside her to see what had caught her attention.
The guests were playing miniten.
Mara glanced at me, then returned her attention to the game going on outside. "What are they doing? I saw people playing that game yesterday, but I don't know what it is. Looks kind of like tennis or badminton, but they have bizarre boxes on their hands."
"It's called miniten. Naturists invented the game. Miniten is short for mini tennis." I pointed with my finger while I explained, "See, most naturist retreats don't have a lot of room for tennis courts, so they had to adjust the game to suit the space they had. Those wedge-shaped boxes are called thugs. Each player has a thug on one hand, which they use like a racket. Miniten is popular because it's more relaxed than tennis, so there's no need for jock straps or sports bras."
Mara leaned sideways toward me to whisper, "I think some of those people could use a little...support."
I chuckled. "Yeah, you're right. I'm sure the balls they're hitting aren't the only ones flying around out there."
"Not to mention the tits."
Her statement shocked me for about two seconds, then I grinned. "Mara, I love your sense of humor."
"Thanks." She grinned too. "You make me feel so comfortable that I can say all the things I would never say at home."
I slung an arm around her shoulders, tugging her close. "I'm sorry you feel that way at home. But here, you can be whoever you want to be."
The house phone rang.
Reluctantly, I gave up having Mara tucked under my arm and answered the phone. "What's up?"
"You're late," Ruth Norris said. "Yoga time was ten minutes ago, and the natives are getting restless. We might have an uprising if you don't get out there and lead them to serenity. And you know how Sylvester loves your yoga sessions."
Yeah, a seventy-two-year-old naturist did yoga. Why not? Sylvester was in better shape than he looked like he was. Having some flab didn't mean he had no strength or agility.
Just watching Sly play miniten proved that point.
"If they're dying for yoga," I said, "why is the miniten net still up? We need the space, unless everybody wants indoor yoga this time."
My outdoor yoga classes had become popular. I'd done the first one last summer when I was a guest, just for fun, but once I became assistant manager everybody begged me to make yoga a regular thing here.
