“What’s the big deal?!”
The big deal is that if Natalie told her brother about my breakup, that means he KNEW Von wasn’t coming. He knew it would just be the two of us shacked up in paradise and he still came!
Is that a big deal or am I reading too much into it?
If not for the stupid theory he issued a few minutes ago, I would assume Noah was only here for a little rest and relaxation, but this all but proves where his intentions lie.
“You still came because you want to be here with me. Alone.”
Do I? And more importantly, does he?
HOLY SHIT.
This can’t be happening.
I’ve been so careful with my feelings for him over the years. Yes, Noah is ridiculously gorgeous. Yes, he’s a talented surgeon. And yes, I’ve heard through the grapevine that he’s a generous…uh…lover, but I kept all that information locked down deep in the recesses of my mind. I can’t entertain errant feelings for Noah. He and I have never been an option. He’s Natalie’s brother! He and I work at the same hospital! And most importantly, he’s so out of my league I doubt he even registers me as a willing female. To him, I’m probably just his kid sister’s friend, a shapeless blob he has to be nice to.
I look down at my petite figure hiding under my sundress. I’m not shapeless and I’m not a blob, I remind myself, angry that my breakup with Von left my ego so bruised.
“Lindsey,” Noah says from the other side of my bedroom door.
Natalie hears her brother and tells me she’ll talk to me later. I hang up and walk over to answer the door.
Noah’s standing on the other side, shirtless.
My brain is so slow on the uptake that I’ve stared at his broad tan chest for a solid thirty years before I finally realize he’s asking me a question.
“You want to come?”
I gulp.
Come.
Like…SEXUALLY?
I blink rapidly and he narrows his eyes, studying my weird reaction.
“Down to the beach,” he says, nodding his head in the direction of the water.
Ah.
Right.
“To the beach?! Sure!” I say, not because I actually want to go but because I feel like it’ll be more awkward if I turn him down. Why would I not want to go to the beach right now? It’s not like I flew down to Mexico to lock myself away in my room all week.
“I’ll wait for you to change,” he says, throwing a glance down my dress before I take a step back and quickly shut the door in his face. I pivot on my heels and press my back to it, squeezing my eyes shut.
This is not going according to plan.
I’ve been in paradise for like an hour and I’m already crumbling.
I imagine what Natalie would tell me if she were here and if the man in question wasn’t her flesh and blood.
Don’t take everything so seriously. Have fun! Be flirty! Enjoy your vacation!
I listen to the fictional advice generated by my own psyche and pull out the skimpiest bikini from my luggage, the one I threw into my suitcase in a brazen you-go-girl, power moment. I didn’t think it’d see the light of day, but here I am tying the red strings around my neck and back and adjusting my cleavage in front of the mirror.
Damn.
Even I have to admit it’s sexy. The red color pops against my fair skin.
It’s the exact opposite of how I usually look around Noah. Most of the time he sees me in my pink scrubs on my way to and from delivering babies. I’m generally wearing a floral-printed surgical cap and/or sporting leftover red lines on my cheeks thanks to the medical-grade face masks.
I wink at my reflection then grab the hibiscus from the bathroom counter and reinsert it behind my ear. With my light blonde hair hanging down around my shoulders, I look like some kind of hot tropical goddess. Then my eyes land on the empty margarita glass and I wonder—briefly—if I only feel like a goddess because of the alcohol pumping through my system.
I don’t have time to reconsider my bikini choice though because Noah calls my name from the living room and I’m forced to join him. I wrap a light sarong around my waist and then pause with my hand on the doorknob.
Here goes nothing.
Noah’s back is turned to me when I walk out, but when he glances back over his shoulder, his dark eyes do exactly what I hoped they would: smolder.
His brows rise a half-inch in shock and then he flashes a confident, devilish smile that melts me from the inside out.
“Nice bathing suit.”
I respond with a This old thing? shrug that feels so wonderfully cool I can barely stand it. Go me! I think as I breeze past him to slide the glass door open and step out onto the terrace.
It’s a hot afternoon, and without the ocean breeze, I’d be sweating bullets. Even with the breeze, I’m forced to pull my hair up off my neck and twist it into a bun as I walk out into the sand.
I claim one of the hotel’s beach chairs and drop my magazine and sunglasses down onto the woven wicker fabric before untying my sarong. Noah watches me. I’m not looking at him, but I can see him in my periphery as he stands motionless next to the chair beside mine.
I fold my sarong into a neat square and set it down on my chair.
Only then do I realize I forgot to grab sunscreen.
I glance up, and Noah waves a little tube of SPF 30 at me. Apparently, he came prepared.
“Need some?”
I nod and hold my hand out to take the bottle from him, but he points to the chair as if he wants me to take a seat.
“You can do mine after,” he suggests, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world.
We’ll just be two single adults, lathering each other up accompanied by the sound of waves breaking in the distance. It’s basically an ad for The Bachelor.
Still, I don’t want to make it seem like I can’t handle him slapping some sunscreen onto my back, so I sit like he urges and then hold perfectly still as he situates himself behind me.
I have about one inch of my butt cheek on the chair, barely perched on the edge so that I’m mostly holding myself up by my straining quad muscles.
Noah realizes and reaches out to grab my waist, tugging me back in between his thighs.
I’m nestled against him and a girlish whimper escapes my lips before I can clap a hand over my mouth. I clear my throat to cover it up, and thankfully, he doesn’t say anything.
I listen as he pops the lid of the sunscreen and then rubs his hands together, warming up the lotion before he starts to apply it to my shoulders.
His hands are big and practiced. He’s not a brute about it, careful to work the sunscreen up my neck and underneath the strings of my bikini. I let my head loll forward just a bit as his palms slide farther down my back. He gets more lotion and then his hands skim down my spine and back up the sides of my chest. His fingers get dangerously close to the outer edges of my breasts, but I don’t say a word. In fact, I take my bottom lip between my teeth to keep from embarrassing myself again.
“You’ll fry out here if you’re not careful,” he warns. “The sun’s a lot stronger than it is in Boston.”
“I know.”
My body hums as his hands skate down my back to the edge of my bikini bottoms. His fingers carefully rub in the lotion there, brushing just below the material in case it shifts around while I’m swimming.
“I’m trying not to miss any spots,” he tells me, and I swear there’s a new huskiness to his tone.