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I press send on it just as Luke steps into the doorway looking like a true beach bum. He and Harper both got a lot of color today. His hair is still damp, his swim trunks and t-shirt both still sandy. Harper leaps to her feet, cutting back into view so she can tell me more about their day.
“It was so fun. My dad and I built a sandcastle almost as tall as me!”
“We did not,” Luke corrects with a laugh.
“Okay, not that tall, but it did almost go up to my knee before it accidentally got washed away.”
“Sounds awesome. I wish you’d snapped a picture so I could have seen it.”
Her shoulders sag. “I know.” Then she perks right back up again. “We ate hot dogs and French fries for lunch, and me and Dad both said we missed your cooking.”
I peer over at Luke to see he’s watching me, and upon hearing this, he nods, not bothering to refute Harper’s claim. Pride stretches a smile across my face.
“Next time, maybe you can come with us and we can pack a picnic with your food.”
I don’t have the heart to tell her that likely won’t be happening.
“Well are you hungry now? I could make you something.”
“You have the day off,” Luke reminds me. “No cooking.”
I can’t find the courage to meet his gaze again for some reason—maybe it’s the tousled hair, maybe it’s the warm tan—so I tell my response to Harper instead. “Sorry to report, but I couldn’t resist. There’s some focaccia bread in the kitchen that will knock your socks off.”
“Knock your socks off?” Harper repeats with a laugh of delight. “What does that mean?”
I stand up so I can show them the bread, and only then do I become acutely aware of how much of my body my bikini reveals.
“Ooh, I like your swimsuit. I want to wear a two-piece like that, but Dad says not until I’m older.”
All eyes are on me, or so it feels, so I grab my towel and wrap it around my chest, grateful that it goes all the way to the top of my thighs.
“That sounds like a good rule. You want to protect your skin from the sun, and it’s hard to do that in a two-piece.”
I’m saying this because it’s absolutely obvious that I’ve done what no Italian has done before: gotten a sunburn. My back feels hot and tight, and I wince when the scratchy towel rubs across my bare skin. Even so, I have no choice but to keep it on while in Luke’s presence.
That’s what I get for falling asleep on a lounge chair like some pasty uncle on a cruise ship.
“If it’s any consolation, I got too much sun today too,” Luke tells me as I lead Harper toward the kitchen to try the bread.
He must have caught my wince, or maybe my red back is visible even from space. Astronauts are up there saying, Look, there’s the Great Wall of China and that dumbass who fell asleep by the pool.
“We’ll be in a world of hurt later,” I lament.
“I have some aloe around here somewhere.”
Keeping his promise, he knocks on my bedroom door later that evening, after Harper’s gone to bed. I’m in my bathroom, assessing the damage to my shoulders when I hear him through the door.
“Did you want this aloe, Chloe?”
“Yes!”
I rush to throw a t-shirt on, hissing as the cotton fabric rubs against my skin. The aloe will help.
I whip the door open and Luke stands there, tall and imposing, with the bottle of aloe cradled in his palm. With this offering in his hand, I swear he’s never looked sexier.
“Need this?”
“Yes,” I sigh, greedily accepting it when he hands the bottle to me. “I’ve never been burned. This is horrible. My Italian ancestors are looking down and laughing at me.”
He chuckles. “Hopefully you fare better than me. I had a hell of a time getting it on my back. I just kind of slapped it on blindly.”
“Oh god. Here, I can help.”
Without thinking, I motion for him to turn around, fully prepared to rub aloe cream all over him until Luke grimaces like he’s uncomfortable and brings his hand up to rub the back of his neck.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Chloe.”
I flush, doubly embarrassed, not only for being so thoughtless as to suggest it in the first place but also because of his rejection.
“Oh god, sorry,” I rush out, worried I’ve put him in an awkward spot. “I wasn’t trying to cross a line.”
“No. It’s just…you know, I’m trying to keep things semi-normal for you. Most jobs don’t entail rubbing lotion on your creepy boss.”
I frown. “You’re not creepy.”
His eyes look so sad when he replies, “But I am your boss.”
Neither of us has a reply for that.
