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Nash stepped closer, making water ricochet between my body and his. I held my breath. What would he do? Say? Touch?
Without a word, he pressed a kiss to my shoulder. Then he ran the soap over my back and gently spread the lather with both hands.
My eyelids drooped. God, that felt good. Not at all as awkward as I’d feared, though not as casual as I’d pretended.Naturalwas a better word, like we were right where we belonged.
Nash did his front after finishing my back, then handed me the soap and turned, waiting. I took a deep breath before scrubbing his back, determined to keep my hands away from the danger zones. Which was hard as hell, given all those tempting contours.
I ran my hands over his shoulders, then his ribs. Too bad he’d washed his front already. But a second rinse never hurt…
I started sneaking my hands forward, then retreated, muttering, “I deserve a goddamn medal.”
“For…?”
I poked the soap into a spot just above his sculpted ass. “For resisting temptation.”
He chuckled. “Smart decision. I’d love a rain check, though.”
I patted his ass. Or rather, I tapped my hand against those buns of steel. I bounced back.
“You got it,” I promised. “A rain check for a shower with more time for…er…dirty thoughts.”
“Promise?”
“Bet your ass, I do.” I patted the area in question.
Nash laughed. “I’ll look forward to that.”
I conditioned my hair in double time and stepped out of the shower, dripping. Nash followed a minute later, and we managed to resist temptation from there on. A damn shame, but duty called. After a quick, companionable breakfast, we set off for work, bouncing down the dirt road in my pickup.
The kind of morning I could get used to.
Without thinking, I reached for Nash’s hand and squeezed. Then I caught myself, wondering how he would react.
Nash brought my hand to his lips, kissed it, then released it with a squeeze.
My heart squeezed too. I coulddefinitelyget used to this.
The roads were silent, the town asleep as we early birds went through our usual routine — picking up the company van, hooking up the trailer, meeting Chico and John, and driving out to the launch spot. There, we found Madden and the guests, who stood yawning around a second van they had shuttled over with.
I did a quick head count — then stopped and counted again. Six guests. Only six.
My breath caught. Could this be my chance?
Hustling over to Madden, I practically snatched the clipboard out of his hands. “How many guests today?”
He gave a foul-breathed yawn and scratched his belly.
“Um…seven?”
I counted again, then called them over. A bachelor party, by the looks of it — all big football-player types in their late-twenties.
“Good morning, everyone. Just a quick head count, please.” I tapped a pen over the list as I called out names. “Switalski… Naylor… Richard Smith… Nate Smith…”
One after another, they replied.
“Yo.”
“That’s me.”
