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I run my fingertips over the soft tapestry of threads. “Got it. Great. Thanks for the update and—um—keeping me in the loop. I take it you couldn’t do any work because I had your computer. I’m sorry about that.”
“Hey, not your fault. We must have mixed up the bags when we chilled by the pool.” His easy laugh rolls off his tongue. “No harm, no foul. I’ll just catch up on it this morning before he rings me up. We set that up for eleven, so I have time.”
“I thought for sure you were against logging hours on company stuff while here.”
“Well, it turns out, a distraction’s in order.”
“Ah ha.”
“Sorta had some steam to burn off last night, and I thought keeping busy might help.”
“Yep.” I smooth my whole hand over the couch cushion now. It feels important to fidget. This cotton twill has a very rustic, casual look to it. Versatile, durable…
Please, Hazel, just keep thinking about this fabric.
I can’t resist.
My eyes flick up.
Yikes.
He’s fixing his towel tuck, tightening it around his waist. “Speaking of steam, I totally should throw some clothes on. I gotta shave really quick, too.”
“Yeah, go—get dressed,” I choke out.
His ab muscles taper near the towel edge. I really need him to go put on one of those loose-fitting Hawaiian shirts to cover up all the drool-worthy goodness he has going on there. And a pair of khakis. The sooner, the better.
“Be right back,” he says.
Then… he winks at me.
He just tosses it out. Like I’m not here fumbling and fidgeting and losing my mind, and this wink isn’t the final straw.
But—it is.
My insides careen with the implications. It’s like the lobby all over again, only now I’m not reading into a three-Mississippi count of eye-gazing. It’s the wink that has me in a tizzy.
It’s like he’s giving me some secret, lover-to-lover communication.
The minute he disappears back down the hallway, I exhale with relief.
Finally—I can breathe, relax my tense shoulders, and at least try to gather myself.
Agh.
This day is a runaway train already.
The door behind me bursts open, and a little girl’s voice flits through the airy space.
“Daddy said I could try to stand up,” she announces cheerfully. “And I did it! I really did it. Did you see it, Jazzy? How I was standing up when that wave came in?”
I whirl around in time to see Jack’s brother—Brett, I recall—prop a big, raggedy-looking surfboard against the bungalow wall. It has chips and dings along one side and huge scuff marks along the top. Sand showers down from it and skitters across the floor.
Brett chuckles as he kicks off his sandals. “You caught your first wave, Lia.”
Meanwhile, the woman at his side—his wife, I think—shoots him a look of warning. “Please do not encourage her, Brett.”
Two little girls, the same ones I’ve seen with this group before, are kicking off their sandals.
