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“Wonderful job, you guys,” the instructor says, walking past us toward the end of class. “You make a great team.”
The simple comment launches me into another mental rant. Are we a team? I feel a little that way, like it’s me and Summer against the world. And not just because we’re keeping our involvement a secret. But I can’t help but wonder what that means for us. She’s going back to LA on Sunday and I’m going back to Berkley. That’s what I want, right?
But as we walk to the breakfast room, this insane thought pops into my head that I’d rather not have to share her with the rest of the wedding party. Not for breakfast. And not for anything else.
Last night, Logan said he wanted to sleep in, so there might be a chance he and Winter are still in bed.
That hope dies when I spot my friend’s mop of black hair next to Tucker’s distinctive brown curls.
So much for taking it easy, I think accusingly.
My dream of breakfast for two at a table by the window, eating croissants and enjoying the view together, vanishes. Summer will want to keep up appearances.
Sucks. Especially because today’s activities will be split by gender again. Unfortunately, the resort keeps separate spas for men and women. That’s probably better, though. I don’t think I’d be able to survive watching Summer strut around in a bikini and keep my hands to myself. But maybe we could bail early from the spa day and go somewhere else, just the two of us.
Here’s another funny thought: I want to spend the day with Summer. Clothes on or off, I don’t care. And since when have I ever wanted to be with a woman beyond the bedroom?
Never. Ever.
Not for long, at least. And never as fiercely.
I mope over all these new realizations through our crowded breakfast, until Summer gets up to refill her plate and I subtly follow.
I wait until we’re near the pastry counter to lean into her body, appreciating the jolt of surprise that shakes her, and the consequent relaxation when she realizes it’s me. The food tables are all placed behind a corner and no one else is around, granting me a little more flirting space.
“Off to the spa soon?” I say.
“Mm-hm,” she hums.
“I feel sorry for those massage therapists.”
“Why?” She frowns, popping a bite-sized donut into her mouth.
I wiggle my fingers. “They’ll have to compete with these babies.”
“Ah, I can give you a rematch anytime you want.”
Summer piles more sweets onto her plate and turns to walk back to our table. I make to follow, but, as if sensing I’m trailing her like a puppy, she stops and looks at me over her shoulder. “You’d better fill a plate with something.”
She blows me a kiss and doesn’t wait for me.
I grab an empty plate and pile it with pastries from the closest tray, before returning to our table. But the moment I sit down, Logan looks up at me with a frown.
“Since when do you eat raisins?”
I stare down at my plate and recoil in horror at finding it filled with mini cinnamon swirls riddled with raisins.
“I—I don’t mind them that much lately.” And to prove my point, I grab one of the mini buns and bite half off. The pastry and cinnamon aren’t that bad, but there’s no escaping the chewy, disgusting, too-sweet taste of the raisins. There are a ton of them, too, ruining a perfectly good breakfast treat and making me want to puke in my mouth. But I can’t, so I try to keep a straight face and, like a martyr, swallow.
Logan shrugs and goes back to eating his eggs, ignorant of the trial he just put me through, while Summer has to hide a smile behind her mug of coffee.
I make the other half of the pastry discreetly disappear into my napkin, and wash away the awful aftertaste with coffee.
* * *
A few hours later, I’m wandering around the spa’s indoor pool with contraband hidden in my robe’s pocket.
Spa guests are not supposed to bring phones into the relaxation area, but I’m half bored to death and my only hope for a distraction is to text Summer.
