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My body acclimates to the cold like I’m part penguin. Or maybe my blood just runs hotter than usual from watching her turn into a mermaid.
She might not know how to kayak, but she’s a damned good swimmer.
“Okay,” I say after five or ten minutes. “Enough.”
“Satisfied?” Destiny cocks an eyebrow at me.
Not a good word to use when she’s looking at me like that, her wet suit clinging to every curve.
Shit, at least most of her is still underwater.
I need to stop thinking about sex and focus on the lessons I’m supposed to be giving her.
“We’ll practice technique first,” I say, leading her back to shore. The pebbles shift under my feet, and I swipe my hands through my hair, wiping away the moisture.
Luckily, there’s not much of a breeze, though I know it’ll pick up once we’re out there on the water.
For now, though, it should protect us against any chills.
“Ready when you are.” Destiny rolls her shoulders as she grabs her paddle.
“Not even close. You forgot this.” I tap her pack and show her how to stow it on the kayak so even if it does capsize, she won’t lose everything she’s brought. “Did you bring spare clothes and a sleeping bag like I asked?”
“Obviously. I’m not up for sharing one, dude.”
That wins her an instant scowl.
“And the first aid kit?”
She sighs. “Yes, Mr. Foster. I went over the list you sent me three times like a good student. Oh, and I added some flapjack. Homemade.”
“Flapjack?” I frown. “Pancakes?”
“No, no. This is a British thing, I think. My stepmom introduced me to it a couple years ago when we were camping. Syrup and oats, all packed neatly in a bar.” She sees me make a face. “Don’t be a dick until you try it. I must’ve hiked more than five miles on a couple of these bars before I even noticed.”
“Sounds as exciting as low-sodium porridge.”
Shaking her head, she rifles around in her overstuffed bag and pulls out this abomination.
“Quit grumbling and try it. It’s high-calorie and slow-release, and it’s actually pretty good for an on-the-go bite.”
I stare at the ziplocked bag in horror. Itsagswith the sticky oat mixture, barely separated into pre-cut bars.
“This is flapjack? This baby food turned to stone?”
“It’s great for ages five and up. I’m pretty sure it’s even good for high and mighty businessmen with an emotional maturity not a day over two years old,” she says, wagging a finger. “Trust me.”
“I’ll take your word for it, Miss Lancaster. Someone needs to keep a cement-free stomach if the other person gets sick.”
Before I can blink, there’s a hard brick of sweet-smelling oats in my face. She holds it under my nose.
“Less talking. More chewing. Don’t tell me you’re scared of a little fiber?”
Fucking hell.
If it’ll shut her up, I suppose one measly bite of this sugar-gruel won’t kill me.
I sink my teeth in like a wild dog and tear off a piece, chew mechanically, and swallow.
