Page 47 of Plotting Summer

Tristan’s eyes remain closed but he smiles, the white of his teeth a stark contrast to the brown mud we’re sitting in. “I’m secure enough in my manhood to enjoy every minute of this.” He pauses, his smile growing. “And also, I know no one but you is going to see me in my true diva state.”

I laugh, lifting my arms out of the bath to rest on the sides, mirroring him. “This is amazing. I can’t decide what’s more enjoyable, this or the massage.”

“I haven’t whimpered once in here, so my vote is this.”

My gaze falls on the large clock hanging on the wall, signaling that our time is up. “Do we really have to get out?”

He peeks an eye open. “We could always see what they do if we don’t.”

I give a relaxed smile, attempting to convince myself to sit up but to no avail. “That would definitely be memorable—being escorted out of the Belacourt covered head to toe in mud.”

“It’s more like neck to toe in mud. You’re missing a spot right here.” He reaches over and touches the tip of my nose with his muddy finger.

“Hey,” I say, unable to wipe it away since my hands are also covered in mud. “You’re asking for it.”

Tristan just sends me one of his I-dare-you-to-do-something-about-it smiles, but as I reach over, a lady steps to the side of my tub. She’s dressed like Lisa but is a few years older with vibrant red hair that hits at her chin, and I’m worried she’s going to scold me, but instead she gestures to the far side of the room. “Whenever the two of you are ready, the showers are through that door.”

And that’s the cue. I’m a strict live-by-the-rules kind of girl, so I lean forward and find my footing before standing to let the mud drip off me. Tala’s black swimsuit is no longer black, and I really hope the mud will come clean from it or I’ll be buying her a new one. Tristan follows my lead and stands, and in a desperate attempt not to stare at his body and the way the brown liquid runs down the natural crevices along the edges of his muscles, I rub my hands down my limbs to get off as much mud as possible. Okay, so I may have peeked a few times, but considering the enormity of the temptation, I feel as though I’m doing decently well.

Tristan and I look like some sort of mud-monster duo as we head toward the indicated door. When we step through, there’s a small, tiled area with three other doors off of it. I can hear a shower running in the stall closest to us, so I try the next door. It’s also locked. I slide down to the last one and it opens. “Looks like there’s only one shower open.”

“I can wait,” Tristan says.

I nod and step inside before glancing back at him. The mud on his body is already starting to dry in places, and with the way my own skin is tightening where the thinnest layers of mud are drying, I can’t help but think how uncomfortable he’ll be by the time there's a vacant shower.

I gesture to the shower. “We’re just rinsing off quick and we have swimsuits on, so if you want, you can come in with me.”

His brows raise, and he looks completely uncertain—an uncanny throwback to that day on the boat all those years ago. And, just like then, my stomach plummets. Why do I always have to push things too far? I honest to goodness was just trying to be considerate. Yes, I may have had a brief image of a wonderful scene for a book, but that obviously didn’t sway me. At this point in my life, I’m super efficient at separating reality from the constant stream of fiction happening inside my head. Okay, maybe not super efficient, but I’m much improved from the younger version of myself.

“No pressure,” I say, taking a step back. “I was just⁠—”

He shrugs. “If you’re sure you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. Friends do things like this together.” My face instantly is on fire. Why I decided to speak this particular thought aloud is beyond me. Like so, so far beyond me. It’s definitely more of a seventeen-year-old Capri move, but honestly, this one’s on Tristan. Planning a date … not a date, an outing … where he’s shirtless for the majority of it and covered in mud for a part of it was a heartless thing to do. I can hardly be blamed for my brain lapse to my former love-struck, awkward self.

“We are friends,” Tristan says, securing the friend zone boundary right along with me.

But when we step into the space together and turn the shower on, friendship is the farthest thing from my mind. And it’s really, really not good. Especially after a few minutes when he lifts his now clean hand to my nose. “Here. Let me help you with that.”

I swallow, holding still despite the drumming inside of me. He swipes his thumb over the spot once, but I can still see it in my periphery.

He steps closer, his proximity pushing the air from my lungs, which is probably beneficial to keep me from gasping when he places a hand on each side of my face. “It doesn’t want to come off,” he says, gently rubbing both thumbs across the tip of my nose as the water streams over us. Then he smiles. Just a normal, unaffected smile. “There you go.”

It takes me .003 seconds to realize I need to pull myself together. I need to act as though I’m also unaffected by our nearness and that his hands on my skin do nothing to me, but I can’t seem to manage it. “Thanks,” I say with a frustrating amount of breathiness in my voice.

His gaze roves over my face, then he drops his hands and takes a small backward step. He puts his head beneath the running water and rubs his hands over his face and through his hair.

Unable to keep my focus from lingering on him, I decide I’ve gotten enough of the mud off for the time being and head out of the shower. I nab a towel from a shelf against the far wall and begin drying myself when the shower door next to ours opens and a woman steps out. Her short brown hair is wet, and she’s wearing a white robe and large sunglasses … inside? But even with her sunglasses on, it only takes me a fraction of a second to recognize her.

With one brief look in my direction, she’s gone.

Tristan’s voice comes from behind me. “What are you looking at?”

I spin back toward him with wide eyes. “You’ll never guess who I just saw.”

He glances toward the now closed door, taking a towel and rubbing it over his sculpted body in a way that almost distracts me, but I’m laser focused. “Who?”

I lower my voice to a whisper because, as a woman trying to hide her own identity, there’s no way I want to be the one to call attention to her secret. I’ll just tell Tristan. And Jane and Tala. But that’s it. “Presley James. You know … America’s darling? The A-list actress?”