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“Then we won’t go there. Not tonight,” I say, and it takes everything in me to back out of his arms and kiss him on the cheek instead of ripping off all our clothes and diving back into bed. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” I grab my things and head back to my suite.
Day 8
At Sea (Formal Night)
Gwendolyn
There’s a spot where the water churned up by the ship cascades over itself, where the most brilliant blue appears, rimmed in white, then greets the rich navy of the depths beyond us. Nowhere on the ship is this more beautiful than the view from the stern, where this electric blue trails us for what feels like miles, where it fans and widens and rolls over and over itself. I could watch it forever from my perch on Deck Fourteen, the wind flinging my hair into my face.
That’s where Sawyer finds me. Rather, that’s where he stumbles across me during what I assume—based on his sweat-drenched shirt, gym shorts, and sneakers—is another training run.
“Tired of the treadmill?” I ask as he jogs toward me. He wipes his face with the hem of his shirt, and his abs are so perfectly defined and glisteny that I consider that he might be a vampire from a YA novel. A vampire who showed incredible restraint when his mouth was on my neck yesterday.
“View’s better here.” His voice draws my eyes from his core. When I look up, he’s half-smiling down at me.
Though last night didn’t have the ending we wanted, everything leading up to it was great. I wonder if he’s thinking about an encore, imagining how much better first and second bases could be now that we know what draws euphoric gasps and moans from each other, what causes the other to arch and writhe and tighten their grip. I wonder if he also thinks we’d hit it out of the park, and I wonder if he’s stuck thinking in baseball analogies like I am. Mostly I wonder if he’s hungry for me the way I crave him.
“I like your sweatshirt,” he says. I’m still wearing his from last night, though unlike my midnight sneaking from his deck to mine, I’m wearing pants with it this time. Well, turquoise biker shorts, but same thing.
“Thanks. I’m never taking it off.”
He drops his gaze to my chest. “We’ll see about that.” Then a family walks by and he clears his throat, and red rushes up to his ears. He motions toward the railing, away from the passersby and out of range of possible eavesdroppers. “Listen, about last night…”
“We don’t have to talk about it,” I say, waving a hand between us.
“I want to.” His eyes are fire, and my chest goes warm. “I told you the other day, I don’t do flings.”
“I know you did.” Does it count, if we didn’t actually sleep together?
“I meant it, Gwen.”
“I know you did.” So this is the part, where he tells me it’s over before anything really begins.
“Which is why I want to take you out.”
I squint up at him. “Out?”
“Out. Like, on a date. A real one, where we actually call it a date before it happens, and not just afterward in front of hundreds of people.”
“Out,” I repeat. I’ve been asked out a few times in the last year, usually by guys who want to give me their pitch so I’ll put in a good word with my agent or my publisher. It was so annoying I gave up, which I’m sure is also why I ended up here, on vacation with my grandmother. “I could go out.”
“Great.” His eyes light up. “Do you have plans tonight?”
“Yes. Very big plans.”
He doesn’t register my meaning until I drop my gaze to his shorts. Then he takes my hands and pulls me to him, rolling his eyes and laughing. “And what about the rest of the day?”
“Probably writing,” I shrug. The breeze picks up; the sky carries a distinct feeling of rain. After busy days in the sun, a lazy day indoors honestly sounds incredible. “What about you?”
“Maybe some reading. Maybe swinging by the gift shop at some point. Hard to say.”
“Maybe a shower?”
There’s a telling twinkle in his eyes as he meets my gaze again. “Gwendolyn Pierce, are you trying to seduce me before our date?”
I wrinkle my nose and smile, tugging on his still-sweaty shirt. “No. You legitimately smell awful.”
“Fair point.” He kisses my forehead and takes a step back. “So…”
