could be looking at.
When I finally manage to yank my eyes upwards, at first I’m held up by the line of hair running up a very flat stomach. Then I finally get past that, leapfrog his navel, and come to some super-tanned abs. I’m seeing if I can actually count six in this pack when my gaze slides sideways. As my eyes come to rest on a jagged red scar just below his ribs, my heart stops banging and contracts so hard it feels like it’s disappeared entirely.
Of all the lunchboxes in all the world, this one has to land here.
‘It is Milla, isn’t it?’ His mouth curves into a grin. ‘So this is where you’ve been hiding. I wondered where you’d gone.’
As my indignance rises, I finally get my act together ‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘I could ask you the same thing.’ This is windcheater guy; he’s not going to hold off on the backchat. ‘Oliver had a bit of a crush in Groomswear so he sent me up to the overspill attic changing area. He warned me Poppy was up here baking, but he didn’t mention there would be barely-dressed women up here too.’
Damn. This far I’ve been so bedazzled by his bare skin, I totally forgot about mine. ‘Sorry to disappoint you but there’s only me. And where I come from, a sleeping T-shirt and shorts counts as fully clothed, not undressed.’
In his anchor-print socks and Calvin’s he’s in no position to judge, even if my briefs are exactly what it says on the tin. No doubt they’d be huge on someone whose bottom was smaller, but on me they’re teeny. It’s also worth mentioning that they don’t go with my top either. The joy of mismatching pyjamas is one advantage I’ve totally rocked since being single. Ben getting picky about tops and bottoms and pairs going together is one bit of the relationship I was not sad to wave goodbye to.
But back in the attic, just to be on the safe side, I yank my top down, keep my eyes low, and definitely don’t dwell on how Nic’s got exactly the right amount of hair on his thighs to make your insides melt. I slam my eyes closed before I get to thinking how it would feel to run my fingernails over the pale strip of skin on the inside of his leg. If he’d be ticklish. Or just super-appreciative.
From his low laugh, I wonder if he’s read my mind. ‘There’s no need to stalk me, Milla. If you want me to take my shirt off, you only have to ask …’ The smile he’s holding back breaks free again.
‘Dream on, mate.’ There’s male beauty we don’t mind appreciating even when it takes us by surprise on Saturday morning. And then there’s knowing you’ve got a body to die for and assuming every girl wants a piece of it. Which is way less attractive.
‘If you’d like to see more of me this week, I’ll mostly be down at the harbour. Just ask for Nic Trendell.’ His eyes spark for a moment, then he looks away and snatches a glance at his watch. ‘And much as I’d love to stay, I’m due at my next appointment.’
‘Fabulous.’ It’s totally not. If my feet weren’t welded to the spot, there’s no way I’d be watching him pick up his denim shirt from the sofa. Or notice that as he takes an inordinate amount of time to do up the buttons, I’m back to letting out mental phwoars at how taut those thighs are. Or be picking my jaw off the floor as I watch him pull up his jeans and zip in.
If there’s an upside, it’s that you can’t feel guilty for mentally undressing a guy when he’s already stripped off in front of you. And if there’s a sense of anticlimax, not relief, as he finally buckles his belt and tucks in his shirt, there’s no way I thought that.
He’s picking some smart navy trousers off the floor and sliding a white shirt onto a hanger. Pulling a face at the jacket that follows. ‘I’d take ocean-going waterproofs over satin lapels every time myself, but at least the fit’s perfect.’ He dives past me towards the door. ‘Let’s make sure we have breakfast together very soon.’
I’m ignoring the butterfly storm in my chest that his offer unleashes. Instead I growl softly, ‘Over my dead body.’
He’s not the only person in the world with a busy Saturday morning.