I should have yelled at him this morning for watching that video and laughing at me behind my back. I should’ve given him one big, gratifying slap. The slow-motion kind in those action movies with his lips wobbling and spit flying in suspended drops. Instead, I dorked up my dork factor and crawled between his legs, taking those dog traits of mine to a new level.
I wanted to be mean to Sam. I didn’t want him to be worried about me paragliding. I didn’t want him to be awesome, or funny, or sweet. I didn’t want him to be him. And I certainly didn’t want to be that girl who lets the guy walk all over her because she’s head over heels for him. A pathetic girl who twitches like a dog.
So I threw us and Florida in his face.
My queasiness returns with a vengeance along with guilt, regret, and the uncomfortable feeling I messed things up with Sam. Sam, who I should be mad at. Sam, who should be apologizing to me. Sam, who is some kind of wonderful.
Perfect. My heart has turned traitor, rooting for Sam and Nina to make it.
Callum steps closer until we’re nearly chest to chest. He leans into my ear. “You look stunning.” As his gaze dips to my breasts and the visible skin through the fabric, the only thing I feel is uncomfortable. I didn’t dress like this for him. I dressed like this for Sam. And he’s still not here.
I slam my shot, then grab Leigh’s.
Thirty minutes later, I can’t remember why I’m mad at Sam or flirting with Callum. Callum’s hand is on my hip, his hot breath in my ear, as we try to talk above the music and growing crowd. The tequila has loosened me up enough that I’m no longer stressing over everything I say.
He folds over the bar to order another beer, and I check out the tables. My sights skim past an older guy with a thinning ponytail and ratlike features. The creep is staring at me. He tips his beer back and winks as he swallows. The whole thing makes me want to throw on a poncho, scrub off my makeup, and swap my skirt for non–figure-hugging sweatpants. I look away quickly, and the next thing I see has the opposite effect. One-syllable Sam. He’s at the door, and all I want to be is naked. With him. Alone. In a tent. Or on a bed. Or in the backseat of his car.
He scans the room. When his sights lock on me, it’s like a tractor beam. We’ve barely seen each other all day. After traveling and spending every waking moment together, it feels like weeks since we’ve hung out. I should still be angry, but, God, do I miss him. He’s in jeans and boots and a black tee. It comes to rest on top of the leather belt around his hips—hips that rocked against mine this morning.
Beam me up, Hot Guy.
The moment my gaze lands on his face, though, my lust turns to panic. His expression is blank. Deadened. That mischievous sparkle I love is nowhere to be seen.
Then his posture stiffens.
Callum rubs my knee and leans into my side. “I never stood a chance, did I?”
I swing around, not sure I heard him right. “Sorry?”
“If you looked at me the way you’re drooling over Sam, I’d lock us in a room and toss the key.” He kisses my cheek. “Hope he knows he’s a lucky bastard.”
Before I can answer, he heads toward Bruno at the pool tables.
I look back at the entrance, and Sam still hasn’t moved. His dark gaze is focused on Callum. The way his fists are clenched at his side, I’d say he wants to punch Callum. Because of me? For me? Jealousy like that isn’t born from infatuation, Sam struggling with his insecurities. It comes from passion. Giving me that necklace, showing me his legs, opening up about his mom…none of that was easy for him, and he chose to share it all with me. The girl who told him she didn’t want to move to Florida. Frick.
It’s time I conquer my canuckaphobia.
If I yell at Sam and get what happened this morning off my chest, we can pick up where we left off. We can talk about school and Florida and us, then we’ll crawl into bed and I’ll explore every inch of his tan skin. This is going down.