40-Love - Olivia Dade Page 0,2

towel.

Arms crossed protectively over her chest once more, she attempted a polite smile. “Thank you so much for coming.”

His gentle snort of amusement rippled the water near his chest.

“No problem. I see you’ve experienced a—” He scratched his stubbly chin. “What do they call it? A wardrobe malfunction?”

His voice was low and husky, his words unhurried. The urgency of the situation did not seem to have punctured his equanimity in any appreciable way.

“Yes.” She dug deep for her poise and didn’t let her smile falter. “I lost a key component of my swimsuit in those rogue waves just now, and there are kids getting way too close. Is there any way you could—”

“Well, let me think about it.” He raised his broad hands from the water, eyeing them consideringly. After another glance at her partially covered breasts, he shook his head. “I may not be man enough for this job, but I’m more than willing to take it on.”

What?

Her smile collapsed. “I don’t know what you mean. I just need you to—”

“Oh, love,” he said, dimples creasing his cheeks. “This isn’t my first lost-bikini-top incident. If you want my hands on you, you don’t have to come up with an excuse. Just ask.”

Ah. Now she understood. Arrogant asshole.

While she searched in vain for a suitably crushing response, he kept talking. “No need to be embarrassed. They’re very good hands.” He flexed them a bit, as if in demonstration. “Besides, I admire a woman who pursues what she wants.”

She summoned her most fearsome stern-administrator tone and her most arctic former-schoolteacher glare. “I don’t want you to cover my, um”—her voice faltered—“assets with your hands, sir. I just want a towel.” She narrowed her gaze even further. “That’s it.”

He looked down at her, his heavy-lidded olive-green eyes skeptical. Behind her, the sound of splashing water was getting louder by the moment.

She enunciated very clearly. “Please. Get. Me. A. Towel. Now.”

“All right, then. One towel, coming up.” Flicking her another lazy salute, he turned for the shore.

Thank God. Finally.

He’d only taken a single, indolent stroke toward the beach, though, before she glanced over her shoulder and realized the terrible, terrible truth. She didn’t have time for him to slow-poke his way to a towel and come back to her. The kids were almost upon her, and her naked boobs were almost upon them.

They weren’t paying her any attention right now, but that could change at any time.

No more hesitation. A worthy principal-to-be should snap into problem-solving mode in an instant, and she was choosing to treat this circumstance like a particularly enthusiastic cafeteria food fight. An emergency, all hands on deck.

Lunging forward, she snatched the man’s ankle just before he swam out of reach. He jerked to a halt and sank a little beneath the water. But soon he was back on his feet, dimples popping and mouth open, no doubt in preparation to say something loathsome.

She didn’t give him the chance.

Before he could get out a single brotastic word, she’d grabbed his waist and maneuvered him until he was facing the kids. Then she leapt onto his broad back, her arms wrapped tight around his neck, her legs around his waist, and her breasts smushed against his shoulder blades.

A silent moment passed. Two. Then he started laughing uproariously, his shaking body rubbing against hers in unexpected and intimate and embarrassingly pleasurable ways.

Oh, Jesus. She’d done it. She’d plastered herself, half-naked, to a random bro.

With his unwitting help, she’d managed not to flash innocent children.

But who was going to save her from her savior?

Two

The bro couldn’t have peeled Tess off if he’d tried. Which he didn’t.

“Keep me behind you at all costs,” she hissed into his ear. “I don’t want those kids to see me.”

His back had gone tense at the first contact of their bodies, every muscle delineated on those powerful shoulders. But when he finally stopped laughing and relaxed, her body melded to his with surprising ease.

“No flashing the children with your, uh, remarkable charms,” he murmured, his cadence as lackadaisical as ever, despite the situation. “Got it.”

Then he didn’t say more for a few moments. Enough time for her to regret her sharp tone.

Yes, he’d made some conceited assumptions about what she needed from him, but he was young and handsome. Women—even women her age or older—undoubtedly threw themselves at him on a regular basis. And if he was inclined to catch them, who was she to judge?

She’d snapped at him. She’d tackled him, half-naked. She was using him as