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We wander around the bay. Other boats also pull up, dropping more tourists to vie for the stingrays’ attention.
The sun bears down, and Gabe pokes my shoulder. “I’m guessing you put on your crappy Georgia sunscreen?”
I nod. “Why?”
“You’re turning pink. Come on. Let’s get back on the boat, and I’ll coat you properly.”
So he’ll be putting his hands on me.
I can definitely go for that.
Chapter 16
GABE
I coat Tillie’s shoulders with real sunscreen, the kind that’s probably rare in the States but necessary in the island sun.
She lets out a sigh as I move down her back, shifting aside the long strands of hair that have fallen out of her loose bun.
I take longer than I need to, letting the sounds of the tourists in the water fade out of consciousness. Mendo and Zeke go through their shtick, taking pictures and video and making sure the customers know they can buy them in a digital package.
I don’t need to listen. I only want to focus my attention on the feel of Tillie’s body in my hands.
The bikini covers so little of her. I fight the urge to kiss the dimple between her shoulder blades. Tiny silver earrings dangle below her ears, sparkling as she moves.
She’s worn a different bathing suit on other days, because the ghost of a tan line tracks from her midback, over her shoulder, and down into the red bikini. I give myself a moment to admire the shadow of the cleavage leading into the top.
But we’re stuck on a damn boat.
“That was fun,” Tillie says. “Thanks for watching out for my ghostly complexion.”
I press my thumbs into her spine, enjoying how she groans with the pressure. The red string on the back of the bikini top tempts me sorely. It takes self-control not to untie it.
I want her alone. I want to see her. Taste her.
“How long will we be out here?” she asks.
“Not much longer. Do you want to go back in the water?”
“Not necessarily. I had my stingray moment.” She glances at the clusters of people in the bay. “There’s a lot more now.”
“Mmmm.” I lift her thigh to swing it across the bench so that she faces me. The heat of her sun-kissed skin settles against mine. I push her hair off her forehead.
She reaches up self-consciously. “I’m sure I look a fright.”
I wrap my hands around her back. “I don’t think you see yourself the way others do.”
Her blue eyes hold my gaze. “I’m a skinny bartender from Georgia whose only real skill is drinking customers under the table.”
“You are a gorgeous, savvy businesswoman. But really, you built a tolerance?”
“Sure. I sawIndiana Jones. I wanted to be Marion. She was fierce. Being able to hold your liquor, but pretending you don’t, is a critical skill when you’re tiny enough that drunk jerks think they can throw you over their shoulders.”
I run my thumb over her cheek. “Well, I see a woman who is fierce. And beautiful. And doesn’t know her own worth.”
She swallows, her gaze dropping. “I better figure it out before too long, or I’m going to be bartending in my seventies.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Because twenty-three is so close to seventy.”
