40-Love - Olivia Dade Page 0,20
he fully deserved. “Zip it, Karlsson. They’re almost at the top of the stairs now. And besides…”
She’d left her hair down and tumbling to her soft shoulders today. The strands, silky and fragrant with some sort of fruity shampoo, brushed against his cheek, and he couldn’t resist. Where she couldn’t see, he caught a stray lock of it and rubbed it between his fingers. Fought the instinct to close his eyes against the overwhelming pleasure of her proximity.
“Besides,” she continued, her voice husky, “they don’t bounce in the water, really. They’re too buoyant for that. They float.”
He’d tried not to notice. He really had. But a single glance before he’d fully understood the situation at hand—so to speak—had burned the image on his brain. Her forearm had barely covered her nipples, leaving the abundant curves of her breasts pale and wet and bare and, yes, floating deliciously close to the surface.
When she sat back, he took a hasty sip of his sparkling blood orange soda and nearly choked on the bubbles. Through his coughing, he managed to choke out, “I stand corrected. Or, uh, sit corrected.”
“Are you okay?” She half-stood again, obviously ready to thump him on the back as needed.
He waved away her concern. “Fine. Just swallowed wrong.”
“Thank you for all this wonderful food.” After finishing her dip mixture, she sighed in contentment and surveyed the expanse of nearly-empty plastic containers covering the table. “I hadn’t eaten at Georgios’s yet. I’ve been focusing on seafood up to this point, mainly.”
He lifted a shoulder. “I think his place serves the best food at the resort, other than maybe The Sands.”
“The Sands is incredible!” Her arms folded on the table, she leaned forward, beaming. “We went there our first night, and I wanted to order everything on the menu. Everything.”
Last year, the resort’s CEO had wooed Lucas over dinner there, touting the island’s various amenities as the waitstaff presented gorgeous plates of perfectly cooked red snapper, spiny lobster, and pink shrimp, among countless other seafood courses.
Lucas hadn’t visited since. Maybe because of his no-longer-limitless budget for such luxuries. Or maybe because food in general hadn’t tasted that good or seemed that important or interesting to him in a while. Not like it did today, as he sat in the sunshine across the table from Tess, the breeze high above the water whipping that bright dress around her strong, shapely calves.
He thought back a few months. “They have a tasting menu, if I remember correctly.”
“Oh, we had that. Believe me. During the school year, we live on grocery-store rotisserie chickens, frozen dinners, and occasional fast food. So when Belle and I get to visit a fancy restaurant, which doesn’t happen often, tasting menus are kind of our thing.” Her nose crinkled in self-deprecation. “But that didn’t stop me from peeking at what all the other tables were ordering and getting jealous when their food arrived.”
For some reason, that thought—Tess wanting, Tess not getting what she wanted—chafed like a blister forming on his heel. “You really wanted to try everything?”
She laughed again. “Of course I did. I think I had a weird sex dream about the tuna carpaccio and lemon chess meringue pie last night. And whenever Belle sees the menu in the lobby, she kind of makes this forlorn moaning sound and mutters about scallop ceviche for a few minutes. But teachers and assistant principals don’t exactly make neurosurgeon money, so one tasting-menu dinner there will have to suffice.”
If the two women didn’t have enough money for sampling everything at The Sands, he could address that issue. His salary might have dropped exponentially in the past several years, but he’d been smart enough to save while he could. Moreover, he and his colleagues around the resort tended to exchange unofficial favors, and he could both collect what he was owed and hand out a few markers of his own.
Tess’s pride, though, wouldn’t allow her to accept that kind of gesture, especially from a man she’d just met. He knew that already.
For that reason, he simply said, “I’m sorry you won’t get to taste the entire menu.”
A flick of her wrist dismissed his concern. “Life is full of compromises, even on vacation.”
There was no self-pity in her tone. Only practicality and resignation.
Yup. That still rubbed him wrong.
She might have accepted that she couldn’t get what she wanted, but he hadn’t. And if he couldn’t make her food dreams come true, maybe he could help with something else.
“Huh.” He propped his elbows on the