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“In the brute-strength, Mr. Muscles competition.”
He misses a stroke on the right before his lips curve up and he raises his eyebrows in a hubba-hubba way at me. “You like my muscles?”
“I didn’t say that. I simply noticed that you have them. Or—I noticed that you seem to think you have them, and that you need to prove they’re bigger than anyone else’s.”
He takes another long stroke on each side of the kayak, flexing and showing off as he does. “If your books are as dirty as your day-to-day innuendos are, I may need to grab a copy or two. And a cold shower.”
Heat rushes to my face, and I’m thankful that the sun has been beating on me all day so I have an excuse for the redness there. Without thinking, I scoop the water into my paddle and flick it behind me, drenching his leg. I repeat on the other side. Back and forth, a few times.
Sawyer returns the favor by taking a sip of his water and pouring the rest of the bottle down my back. And damn him for taking his water intake seriously and having a quality, insulated bottle, because there are still pieces of ice left over from when he filled it this morning, and now they’re down my spine and under my shorts. One may have found its way into my bikini bottoms.
I arch my shoulders back, willing the sun to find my skin in any separation I can create between my body and the mandated life vest strapped around me. “You ass.” I might be laughing as hard as I can tell he is.
“Your face was so red that I thought I should help you cool down.”
The competition is lost. We’re almost there, but we’ve been passed by everyone but John and an elderly couple who take turns paddling while the other looks through a pair of binoculars.
I roll my eyes at him. “You just lost us free rum, you know.”
“If only there was some hot-shot, fancy-pants celebrity who could afford to buy a couple drinks for us. Especially because she’s the one who tanked our chances of winning.” For good measure, he turns his paddle sideways in the water and gives me one more quick flick. “We even? Truce?”
“Fine. Truce. If you buy the drinks.”
“Gwendolyn Pierce, are you asking me out?”
“Never.”
“Bummer. Nan and Maggie will be so disappointed.”
When we reach the sand, Sawyer hops out first, then offers a hand to help me out of the kayak. We have an hour until the water taxi takes us back to the ship, and Sawyer returns our gear while I get ready for relaxation.
Without the bulky life vest, I can see that the backs of my arms and shoulders are burning. I grab my sunblock from my tote bag and strain to apply an even coating.
“Do you want help with that?”
I turn toward the voice, just as Denny’s eyes make their way up to mine. My skin prickles under his leer, and I glance at his outstretched hand and swallow. “I, um, I think—”
“Hey, baby, need a hand?” Sawyer slides in behind me and seamlessly transitions into rubbing the lotion across my shoulder blades, like Denny doesn’t even exist.
I shrug at Denny as Sawyer’s hands crest my shoulders, his fingers curling up and over, his thumbs massaging circles at the base of my neck. He looks up, so close his breath is warm, dangerously close to my ear, and acknowledges Denny’s presence.
“Oh, hey man. Great job out there today. Really enjoyed the ghost stories.”
Denny cocks his head and squints back. “Ghost stories?”
“I think he means pirate stories,” I interject.
“Yes. Pirate stories.” Sawyer deposits a performative kiss on my temple. “Can you blame me for not paying attention when this gorgeous woman was my view?”
I can’t tell if the goosebumps on my skin are from the words he said or the warm-honey way he said them.
It could be the kiss, I guess. Yes. Definitely the kiss. But these are the I-just-got-jump-scared-by-the-clown-in-the-haunted-house kind of goosebumps, not the I-like-how-that-felt kind. Right. Definitely.
“Alright, well. You guys enjoy the beach then, I guess.” Denny takes the incredibly unsubtle hint and saunters off toward the equipment hut to join a brooding John.
“I guess I really might have some competition after all. If, you know—” Sawyer clears his throat, and he rubs in the last of the sunscreen more aggressively than when he had an audience. “If I were actually… which I’m not, of course.”
“Of course. No.” Denny looks my way again, all sad puppy eyes and surfer boy muscles, and I can only imagine that the words spewing from John’s moving lips are a scolding for fraternizing with the clientele.
