“Yeah, again, I’ve heard that before. Anyway, since you’re on pins and needles, the new phobia on your list is: fear of compliments. It’s nuts the way you turn every nice thing I say into a detailed rant about how wrong I am. Is that something you’ve perfected over time? Like some New-Age tactic to lower the bar in case people think you’re cool?”
“Just so you know, there are several curse words I’m shouting in my head, and they’re all mean. Really mean. I hope you can feel them.”
I grab my chest and stumble back. “Wow, Canada, that’s some dangerous voodoo.”
An older lady next to me chuckles. She studies Nina, then me, and gives us a knowing smile. I’m not sure what that look means, but she sure as shit thinks Nina and I are more than friends.
Wanting to pretend for a second we are, I straighten up, walk behind Nina, and place my hands on her shoulders. I bend so my lips graze her ear and flash to the feel of her body flush against mine in that tiny bikini. “Next time I tell you you’re hot, you might want to say thanks.”
A whimper escapes her lips, and she falls against my chest. I don’t move an inch. It’s a sickness, my need to touch her. Any excuse I get, my hands are on her body. A pat on the arm, a brush against her hip. I know she likes it. That’s often when she looks up at me with those eyes. The ones that get my heart racing and my dick lengthening and my head screaming at me to stop whatever it is I’m doing. You can’t look at a guy with eyes like that and not want to fuck him. Hard. I’m a total dick for encouraging her when I know full well I won’t do anything about it. Not since I have a “girlfriend.” Asshole. But I’m addicted to her and to that look.
I can still feel the lady watching us, and I like it. I want people to think Nina’s mine.
“Sam,” Nina says quietly, her back expanding against my chest with a deep inhale, “don’t you have a girlfriend? I’m not sure guys with girlfriends should be saying stuff like that.”
There she goes, calling me on my bullshit. This is my chance to tell her Lacey and I broke up. Slide my hands around her waist and run my tongue along her ear like I did that day in Pahia. Live in the moment. Any second, it could all be ripped away. Instead, I lean in and say, “I have a girlfriend, Nina. I’m not dead. And you’re beautiful.” My hands are still on her shoulders, her pulse ticking beneath her cotton tee.
She pauses a moment, leans farther into me and says, “Okay, thanks.”
A loud grunt from ahead makes her jump, and she moves away from me. I stop from reaching for her and stand to the side, cursing myself for being such a pussy. Again. I focus on the six Maori men on the grassy field in front of us as the opening ceremony starts. I focus on them, because it’s impossible not to.
These dudes are huge. Incredible Hulk huge. My nuts almost crawl into my stomach at the sight of them. The Maori are a warrior culture, and these guys look like fierce Polynesian men about to do battle. Swirling tattoos cover their faces, some real, some not, and even though they’re wearing nothing but black-and-white fringed skirts, you couldn’t pay me to crack a joke about it. No chance in hell I’d pick a fight with one of these monsters.
“I’m so excited,” Nina whispers as she bounces from foot to foot.
“Yeah, me too,” I say, but not for the same reason.
Seriously, she’s going to kill me.
The warriors put on a show chanting, grunting, smacking their limbs, and making insane faces that has Nina grabbing my arm in fear. Like a total douche, I flex, and she grips me tighter. I may as well enjoy this. Odds are she’ll want nothing to do with me in a few minutes. Soon, the Maori men and women will be performing traditional dances in the meetinghouse, but not before a volunteer is chosen to take part in a number with the group. Fuck, yeah. Phobia number five is about to be destroyed. Chorophobia—fear of dancing in public.
The guys finish their ceremony, and a woman steps up to ask for a volunteer. The request