get worse.
“Something interesting down there?” Sam asks.
This guy is the magnet to my awkwardness, always close enough to witness my humiliation. “No. No. Just, you know, checking out the sidewalk. I think they use different cement in New Zealand.” Could I be a bigger dork?
“Hmm. Didn’t notice.” He moves next to me and plants his elbows on his knees. He studies the concrete. “Yeah. Now that you mention it, it’s a little more blue-gray. I could get some chairs so we can watch it for the morning. See if it changes color with the sun?” Straight-faced, he shifts his gaze to my pink cheeks.
“Sorry, it’s just…” Why am I always apologizing? It’s like I have Polite Tourette’s. “It’s a long story. There was a clothing emergency, followed by a sunscreen emergency. It’s all under control now.” I give him unenthusiastic thumbs-up while still hunching forward.
He straightens, no doubt expecting me to do the same…in my nonexistent swimsuit.
His long shadow casts over me. “Did you throw your back out?”
My head falls between my legs as I curse Reese’s mom. She probably refused to let her daughter play with dolls. If I stay here a second longer, my kind-of-dork status will reach full-blown-dork status, and Sam isn’t moving. Knees knocked together, I roll up. “Back’s just fine, thanks,” I say, keeping my focus on the pavement.
He clears his throat. “I thought you’d never be caught dead in something like that.” His voice is suddenly rough.
“Sorry, what?” Forever sorry. I roll my eyes at myself.
I tilt my head back to peek at his face. His gaze drags down my body, that jaw of his clenched tight. He has a full jaw—heavy, masculine—the scar on his chin deep, skin puckered along its length. I’d guess it needed stitches.
He lifts his gaze to meet mine and steps toward me. “Gilligan’s Island? At the baggage claim? You said you’d never wear one of Ginger’s bikinis, and this one’s Kardashian skimpy.” He blinks once, slowly, his long lashes fanning his cheeks.
Lost in his warm brown eyes, I practically forget what I’m wearing. I finger the top in my hand. “Kardashian? I didn’t peg you for the reality TV type.”
He laughs. I made Sam laugh. Wow. Look at me, having a normal conversation with Hot Guy while standing half-naked. I’m a small-talk ninja warrior.
“Me?” he says, shaking his head. “No. My little sister. She leaves those magazines all over the house, and that Kardashian chick wears bikinis bigger than this.”
He nods to my chest, and I bite my lip. I put my hand on my hip and shift my weight, for once enjoying what people call banter. With my family I’m witty and sarcastic, always quick on the draw, but stick me with my own peers, and I revert to the speech level of a first grader. Apparently, that’s not the case with Sam. “So you read those girly magazines?” I ask.
He draws his head back, shocked. “No. My sister. They’re my sister’s. Like I said.”
“Okay, but which Kardashian?”
“Kim, the one with Kanye.”
“So you do read the magazines.”
A grin splits his face, stretching his scar. He shakes his head. “No. No way. I do not read that trash.” He pushes his curls back from his forehead, the ones that always bounce forward.
“Liar.”
He smiles. I made Sam smile.
“I will not admit to reading that girl smut.” He folds his arms and widens his stance, a mock frown on his face.
“Would you take a lie detector test?”
“Bring it on, Canada.”
This is banter, a friendly exchange, and possibly…flirting? I am flirting with One-syllable Sam. Sam, whose chestnut eyes dip down my body, practically searing my flesh.
Skin. Heat. Oh, God. Things take a turn for the worse.
I envision the sex goddess version of me releasing the string around my neck, letting the little green triangles drop to my feet. Sex-goddess me arches into Sam as he cups my breasts and bites my neck…
“Hey, careful,” he says in my ear.
It’s then I realize I’ve fallen against his chest while lost in my fantasy. That chest. “Shoot, sorry.”
“Don’t be.” His words are barely audible.
His hands slip around my back, burning into my skin, and he tugs me closer. If he weren’t holding me so tight, I would literally melt. Into a puddle. Or burst into flames. Then, then, his lips graze my ear. Forget flames, I am now a firework about to be lit. The one that bursts into stars. I whimper and press into him. When his tongue and teeth join the party