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“Mine are in Beverly Hills.”
“I always forget you’re rich.”
“They’re rich.”
“They don’t share?” I ask.
“Not even a little.”
“That sucks.”
“I thought so at first.”
“But you’d rather be self-reliant?”
He nods. “It feels good, not needing anyone.”
That’s a funny way to word it. I study Wes’s expression.
It’s the same as usual.
Effortless. Teasing. Wicked.
There are no signs of hurt in his deep blue eyes.
No cracks in his smile.
Maybe he means it’s nice being self-reliant. Not that he never wants to need anyone.
God knows I can’t judge. I’m not exactly good at letting my guard down. Thus the whole virgin at twenty-two thing.
I move to the closet. Pull the door.
Wes lets out a hearty chuckle. “That is exactly what I imagined.”
“What?” My cheeks flush. There’s nothing funny about my closet. It’s well organized, sure, but that’s completely sensible.
“Nothing.”
“You’re laughing.”
“With you.” He moves closer. Until he’s right there. His fingers brush the back of my hand. My wrist. “This is you. It’s a rainbow of gorgeous dresses.”
“Well, yeah, what else would I wear?”
“Pants?”
“Why would I wear pants?”
“They’re practical.”
“Yeah, but…” They’re pants. They’re so plain. And frumpy. And blah. “You have to be really cool to look good in pants.”
“You don’t think you’re cool?”
I stare into his eyes for a sign he’s teasing, but there’s nothing. He’s completely earnest. “What about me is cool?”
“You dress like a Mad Men extra.”
“That isn’t cool.”
He shakes his head. “You’re into the things you love. You embrace them.” He motions to the living room. “Those posters. That’s the picture of cool.”
“Good to know.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“No… it’s more. Well…” I should take the compliment. “Thank you.”
“Sure thing.” He moves closer. “Besides.”
“Yeah?”
He places his body next to mine. “I like the dresses.”
“Oh.”
“They’re fucking sexy.” He slides his hand over my hip. Drags it down my thigh then over the hem of my dress. Then under it.
My stomach flutters.
My legs wobble.
My heart thuds.
“Sorry.” He pulls his hand back. “Supposed to help you get dressed, not undressed.”
“That is the first step.” Let’s skip these plans. Get undressed. Get into my bed. I can handle that. Totally.
Deep breath.
Slow exhale.
I try to imagine a dirty demand falling from my lips.
Keep going, Wes. Make me come. Please.
God…
That’s so…
It’s so…
So not happening.
“How’s your balance?” he asks.
Balance. That could be rollerblading. Or the paddle boarding. Or hiking even. Or maybe the trek to the Hollywood sign. It’s on private property, so getting close means trespassing.
“Quinn?”
“Pretty good. I do yoga three times a week.”
His voice drops an octave. “Yeah?”
I nod.
“Show me something.”
“In this?” I tug at my skirt.
He nods yeah.
“Mmm… why should I?”
“Because I asked nicely.”
A fair counter.
God, there’s something about the look in his eyes.
Like he absolutely, positively needs me to show off a yoga pose.
But I really can’t do one in my dress. Not without flashing him. And that—
I’m not there yet.
I take a step backward. Bring my left foot to the inside of my right thigh. Press my palms together in front of my chest then raise them over my head. “Tree pose.”
He nods sure. “You got any with more bending?”
“Not in this outfit.”
He shrugs. “Thought I’d try.”
“What about you?”
He cocks a brow.
“Are you flexible?”
“I do all right.”
“Let’s see.”
“I’m not a yogi.”
“I bet you’ve been to a class.”
He shrugs maybe I have, maybe I haven’t.
“Show me your most advanced pose.”
“Fair enough.” He slides out of his sandals. Leans down. Presses his palms to the carpet.
Right in the middle of the room, he kicks up to a handstand.
And he holds it too.
One, two, three, four, five—
Damn, that’s impressive.
I’ve been practicing for three years and I can do a handstand against the wall.
I know, I know, you can’t be good or bad at yoga. If you show up and practice you’re good.
But to be that good…
I swallow my jealousy.
“Show off,” I tease.
He returns to his feet. Tugs at the fabric of his shorts. “Feel these.”
I do. They’re thin. Nylon. Board shorts. “We’re going swimming?”
“Probably, yeah.”
So it’s the paddle boarding. As in, we’re probably falling in. “What about these?” I tap my glasses.
“How much do you need them?”
“I can see okay without them.” Okayish.
“We’ll leave them in the car.” He turns to the dresser on the right side of the room. “You have a swimsuit?”
“Of course.” I have five swimsuits. Every time there’s a sale, I get this idea in my head that I’m going to magically transform into a California girl who lounges on the beach in a bikini and Daisy Dukes. (I do not own any Daisy Dukes. Only a pair of work out shorts).
“Probably want that.”
“On top?”
“Nothing.”
I swallow hard. “You want me to walk around in my bikini?”
“I want you to walk around naked, angel. But you’re gonna want to skip the clothes on the paddle-board, yeah. If you don’t fall in, you aren’t trying hard enough.”
That’s a good attitude. Falling isn’t a failure of balance. It’s a sign of effort.
