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Not theoretically. Not just that he found her attractive.
He wanted her.
She pressed her opposite palm on the decking and he pulled her up out of the water. When she rose to her full height, the breeze causing her to shiver, they were nearly eye to eye. In spite of her goosebumps from the cool water, she felt like she was on fire. Her nipples were tight, high peaks.
For a split second they were locked in a heated gaze.
But Sullivan took an immediate step backward and she wondered if she had imagined it. Any of it. All of it.
It was time to wrap herself in a big towel that covered everything she had and shove some tortilla chips into her mouth so she didn’t say something she would regret.
As she quickly walked down the dock to the sand, she had a serious conversation with herself.
Don’t do it, Edwina. Don’t look. Don’t turn around.
It was futile. She had no control over herself. As if her body was acting entirely independent of her brain, she glanced back at him over her shoulder.
She hoped he was looking anywhere but at her.
Nope.
He was watching her intently.
She practically ran to her towel.
“How was the water?” Jesse asked with a grin.
“Refreshing.”
Licorice ran over to her when she wrapped her towel around her breasts and sat down next to Astrid. She picked the puppy up and cuddled her, needing a comfort animal. Her head was spinning. Her thoughts were dirty and dangerous and she couldn’t seem to kick them to the curb.
If she didn’t get the endless thoughts about Sullivan O’Toole out of her head once and for all, she was going to have a serious problem.
Sullivan dove off of the deck in one smooth motion.
This wasn’t about Sullivan. This was about her. This was about her relationship.
She had a serious and difficult decision to make.
“How about a margarita, Edwina?” Astrid asked. “I’m going to make myself one.”
At least that was an easy decision. “I’d absolutely love a margarita.”
Chapter12
After one margarita Edwina texted Nigel. She sent him the picture she’d taken of the old team photo Sloane had shown her.
Pick me out of this photo.
What are you talking about? That’s a boy’s hockey team.
I’m on the team. Can’t you tell which one is me?
Granted, she was thirteen in the picture, but she still had the same frame, the same smile. And her hair was to her shoulders whereas most of the boys had less length, more Justin Bieber bangs.
I don’t understand this game.
Clearly not.
