Page 27 of The Trouble with Flings

She’s not the one I’m worried about. I’ve been in over my head since the moment the universe gave me a second chance with her.

When we finally make our way out of the water to hydrate and put on more sunscreen, neither of us is quite ready to leave the waves behind. They keep rolling in after us like they have somewhere to be, and I realize, for the first time in as long as I can remember, I don’t have anywhere else to be. Other than the conference, that is. I feel mildly guilty for not attending, but for once, work feels like an interruption instead of a priority. I glance at Jennifer, with salt drying on her skin and stars in her eyes, and I’m certain I made the right choice.

“That was awesome,” she says as we carry our boards toward our blanket. Her skin is a gorgeous shade of bronze already, her cheekbones the faintest pink.

“You were amazing out there. A natural.” She truly was. Once she got up on that board, there was no stopping her.

She bumps me with her shoulder. “Thanks. I had a great teacher.”

I take her hand, and she doesn’t look at me funny this time.

The beach filled in while we were surfing. Jennifer is quiet as she takes in families gathered on blankets, kids chasing the waterline, and the dog running down the beach barking after a ball. Her brows knit, and this feels like an introspective silence, like when she was studying me on the board this morning. I want to ask what she’s thinking about. I’d like to believe she’s toying with thoughts of me, but I don’t think she’d let herself go there. She already allowed herself to wake up in my arms, and she’s letting me hold her hand. I don’t ask about her thoughts, because I know asking for more will probably make her walls go back up.

We set our boards down by our blanket, and Jennifer picks up a towel, blotting her face. When she lowers the towel, she looks out at the water again, and her expression fills with satisfaction. She glances over, catching me watching her, but she doesn’t turn away.

“Thank you for skipping your conference to spend the day with me, and for being patient and taking the time to make sure I was safe and learned the right way to surf,” she says.

“It was my pleasure, but you did all the work.”

“Yes, but you believed I could.”

“I don’t think anyone who knows you would think there’s anything you can’t do.”

A warm breeze moves between us, and she steps toward me, tilting her face up, opening another door. I press a hand to her sun-kissed cheek and brush my thumb over the ridge. She closes her eyes for a second, the way you do when you want to sink into a moment. When she opens her eyes, they’re softer, a little longing.

I lower my lips to hers, and there in the warm sun, she kisses me back. It’s not feverish or urgent, but it has a gravity all its own. I feel a shift between us, like we’re becoming something different, something more.

Or maybe that’s just my Jenniferized brain playing tricks on me.

When our lips finally part, her eyes are a little hazy. I slide my arm around her waist, pulling her closer.

“Fitz,” she says softly.

“Hm?”

“I’m not done surfing.”

Of course she’s not. “The water’s not going anywhere.”

“Neither am I. I was just warning you.” She wraps her arms around me, and as I lower my lips toward hers, feeling like I’ve caught the best wave possible, she goes up on her toes, meeting me halfway.

Chapter Eight

Jennifer

What is it about the heat of the sun and the sound of the ocean that makes the rest of life pale in comparison? We had lunch at a cute café down the street that served the best ceviche I’ve ever had, and then we headed back out on our boards and surfed until my legs gave out and the waves started winning. Now we’re stretched out on the blanket listening to music from Fitz’s phone, and I’m blissfully relaxed.

My eyes are closed, but something briefly blocks my sun, and then I feel the cool drip of liquid across my shoulder blades, the scent of sunscreen a precursor to Fitz’s hands on my back. I love that he didn’t ask, but it’s also so different from what I’ve experienced with other men, it should rattle me. But Fitz has been doing little things all day, taking care of me in ways no one ever has, leaving no room for that kind of anxiety.

I didn’t notice at first, when he chose a table in the shade and pulled out the chair for me that offered the best view of the water, then quieted the server’s interruption with a gentle comment, allowing me to finish what I was saying, and the way he remembered the offhand remark I made last night about not being a fan of goat cheese and flagged it when we ordered. When we were heading out to surf after lunch and it seemed like a fight might break out between a rowdy group of kids, he inserted himself between me and them, guiding me farther down the beach.

The funny thing is, I can tell he doesn’t do it for control, which I’m sure is one of the reasons I feel so safe with him.

Now his big, warm hands move over my back with meticulous care, covering my entire back and sides with sunscreen. As if he’s trying to do it properly, rather than hoping it might lead somewhere else. When we applied sunscreen to each other’s backs earlier, it wasn’t like this. We joked about getting naked on the beach, only I don’t think either of us was really joking. This feels different, devastatingly sensual in a nonsexual way, and I melt beneath his touch.

His hands settle on my shoulders, massaging the muscles I’m sure will ache tomorrow, and works his way lower, gently kneading the tension outward from my spine. I open my mouth to thank him, but all that comes out is an appreciative exhalation.

“Feel good?” he asks.