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I’m lying on my stomach, so I prop up on my elbows to glance over at him. I was expecting him to ice me out again, pretending like he doesn’t know me. I didn’t get the memo that our cold war was over. I’ll take advantage of a rare moment of affability on his part, but my guard is still up.
“Hey.” I can’t completely hide the suspicion in my voice. “How was practice?”
“Good,” he says, ignoring my cautious tone.
He tugs his T-shirt overhead, and my eyes automatically drop to his chest before lowering to his abs under the cover of my sunglasses. I suck in a breath.
Sam is sculpted to perfection. He’s nothing but muscular, golden skin. Whatever I imagined he looked like beneath that shirt, the reality is a million times better. There isn’t a soft, untoned part of his body as far as I can tell. His legs are cut from stone. I’ve noticed that about all the hockey players. I guess it’s from all the time on the ice, stopping and starting and pushing their big bodies across the frozen surface. Whatever it is, he looks mouthwatering.
Cruz and Cooper say hi to me as they drop their things on the loungers next to Sam’s, remove their shirts and sliders, and immediately dive into the deep end.
Sam pauses to stretch his arms overhead, and his abdomen ripples with the movement. Heat flushes my skin. He slips out of his Nike slides. I rest my head on my arms and continue to watch him. He glances over.
“Your shoulders are getting red. How long have you been out here?”
“All afternoon,” I confirm, wondering why he’s acting like we’re suddenly friends, but strangely enjoying the attention.
His eyes dart down to my sketch pad and back up to me. “You been drawing?”
“No,” I drawl lazily. “I’ve been enjoying the sun too much to do anything but lie here.”
I reach into my bag and grab the sunscreen, sitting up to rub some on one shoulder and then the other. I’m struggling to reach my upper back.
“No wonder you’re burned,” Sam scoffs. “You’re doing a terrible job of applying that.” He snatches the lotion from me and squirts some into his hands. “Lie down,” he orders me.
I drop to my stomach.
At the first touch of his warm palms, my skin pebbles. I squirm to try and cover the reaction my body has to each stroke on my skin. I don’t know if it’s because a man is touching me or if it’s because it’s Sam. But I don’t remember Eliott’s touch ever feeling like this.
Eliott, my boyfriend.
Sam doesn’t stop at my upper back. He rubs along each shoulder in lazy, massaging circles, taking his sweet time. I’ve never been more aware of hands on my skin before. He trails a path down my spine to the top of my bikini bottoms. Along the way, he hits the back strap of my bikini top, his fingers sliding beneath it. It’s a sensual, intimate touch, and it makes me tense. But if Sam feels my response, he ignores it, covering every inch of my back meticulously with a fresh layer of sunblock.
“Sam!” Cruz yells.
Cruz’s voice snaps me out of the haze I’m in from the feel of Sam’s strong hands.
“What?” Sam asks his teammate. He tosses the lotion back into my bag.
“Get your ass in here,” Cruz demands with a smirk.
“Coming,” he answers.
The crowd has doubled in size as the day drifts closer to happy hour, and it’s become more of a party atmosphere around the pool. Cruz and Cooper have amassed an audience of beautiful women in the short time Sam has been helping me. They’re grouped in the shallow end of the pool, hanging out on the steps that disappear beneath the water’s edge, looking like an advertisement filled with beautiful, airbrushed model types and athletes.
I flip over and adjust my lounger until the back is in a seated position. I intentionally don’t glance at Sam, uneasy with the odd burning in my lower gut at the thought of him joining the group in the pool. It’s like the feeling I had at the restaurant in San José. I’m unsteady and uncertain why I suddenly care. Sam’s always been a womanizer. My presence here doesn’t change that. Getting upset about it is silly. Just because he’s my responsibility doesn’t give me ownership over the hockey player. I’m here to do a job and nothing more. But I can still feel his touch on my skin.
“Do you need your front done too?”
My eyes whip to him. He’s tossing his shades on top of his towel, but his gaze is focused on my chest and slowly dropping down my stomach. His eyebrows are arched.
His brazen perusal of my body should remind me of the type of man he is. I should be offended. But instead, I suddenly understand how all those other girls must’ve felt in the past. How his eyes on me feel addictive and cause my skin to tingle. How even the simplest word from his mouth stirs the greatest anticipation. How I want more of him without fully understanding why. For the first time ever, I’m experiencing the full appeal of Sam’s attention. I’ve never felt more like a flighty groupie than I do at this moment.
My self-consciousness rises, but not because I feel objectified by Sam’s attention.
Because I like it.
Too much.
