Ride the Tide (Deep Six #3) - Julie Ann Walker Page 0,17

Her words back in the hotel had been bold and full of bravado, but he’d heard the underlying pain in her voice. His rejection hurt her. He had to make that right. “I owe you an apology, Alex,” he finally managed.

Surprise flashed in her eyes. But she recovered quickly and made a rolling motion with her hand. “Proceed.”

Despite his discomfort, he felt one corner of his mouth twitch.

She was funny. And smart. And wickedly sexy.

Although she seemed completely oblivious to that last thing.

He supposed her obliviousness was a big part of the allure for him. It would’ve been easy to reject her had she been all vampy and vixeny. But her earnestness, her sincerity called to the part of him that wanted to trust in someone again, that wanted to believe in someone again.

And yet… You’re not normal. There was that voice. That truth. And he had to spare Alex. For her own sake.

“When you…uh…” He pushed an agitated hand through his hair. He wasn’t good with words. Not like her. And he wanted to make sure he did this right. Said this right. “When you made me that…uh…offer…”

“You mean the offer of my virginity?” She made a face. “Come on. Let’s not dance around the thing. We’re both adults.”

He dipped his chin in agreement. They were both adults. He was way adult at the ripe old age of thirty-five. But talking about a woman’s virginal state made him feel all of thirteen again. “When you offered to let me take your virginity, I—”

“And that’s another thing,” she interrupted. “I don’t like that phrasing. You wouldn’t be taking anything. I’d be giving it to you. With full agency and consent.”

He gave her a stern look, telling her without words to keep her mouth shut.

She pantomimed zipping her lips, locking them shut, and tossing the key over her shoulder.

“When you offered to give me your virginity,” he said and she smiled, satisfied with his choice of words, “I was a total tool and didn’t respond like I shoulda.”

Apparently her zipped lips were for show, because she chimed in with “If memory serves, you told me I was clearly looking for something more than you were willing to give. That you’d been there. Done that. And burned the T-shirt.”

“Right.” He shifted uncomfortably against the netting. “What I shoulda said was ‘thank you.’”

Her eyebrows tried to disappear into her hairline.

He’d been fascinated by them from the start. Partly because they were ever mobile. But mostly because they looked smooth and soft, making him want to reach out and touch. Making him want to trace them with his fingertips and then his lips.

“Thank you for choosing me for such an honor.” He pushed ahead before he could get even more distracted. Or, you know, spring a boner. “Thank you for wanting to entrust me with such a gift and—”

“Ugh.” She rolled her eyes and pointed at his nose. “See? That right there. All those flowery words—honor, gift—show you haven’t been listening to me and are attaching too much importance to this thing. Are your ears purely decorative?”

When she let her hand fall back into her lap, he covered it with one of his own. He was immediately struck by the disparity of sizes. Where he was broad-palmed and thick-fingered, she was soft and small and delicate.

Her skin was baby soft and cool beneath his touch. But it warmed up quickly, as if her blood raced to the surface to be closer to him. Or maybe his blood was hot enough to warm them both.

She used her free hand to push her glasses higher on the bridge of her nose and stared at him in surprise. Touching her was something he had rarely allowed himself to do before her proposal. And something he’d avoided altogether since.

But he wanted her to know how sincere he was now. He wanted her to understand that he meant every single word with every single fiber of his being.

Of course, it was a catch-22. Because when he was touching her, it was nearly impossible to remember any words.

“And you’re not attaching enough importance to it,” he told her quietly, pulling his hand away and settling it back into his own lap. “Which is why I can’t do what you want me to do despite the fact that my sixteen-year-old self is calling me a frickin’ idjit and punching me in the dick.”

“You know,” she mused, staring out at the waves so that he was gifted with a view of her