His cheekbones flushed pink, and he swung his gaze to the pool.
“You’re wearing shades,” he said.
“Then look elsewhere.”
“Already on it.”
“They’re not fake, you know.”
I sniffed. It was one of the many rumors about me around Fairhope. That I got myself a new pair of tits for my eighteenth birthday to try to bag a wealthy husband who’d accept my toddler son as a package deal.
In truth, my breasts just never fully bounced back (pun definitely intended) from being Bear’s open buffet for the two years I breastfed him (formula costs a fortune).
“I never bought into those rumors.”
“Then why were you looking?” I challenged.
“Because I’m a red-blooded man, and you’re…” He stopped himself from finishing the sentence.
“What?” I asked, almost frantically.
Up until a second ago, I found it impossible to believe he found me more attractive than a warm bucket of spit.
“Nothing.”
I ripped the shades from my face, swinging my legs across the sunbed and sitting up straight. My harlot smile was scarlet-red and on full display.
“What am I, Cruz?”
“Hot,” he said gruffly, his voice low and measured and full of the things he wanted to do to me. “Extremely hot.”
“You think?”
“Now you’re just fishing.”
“Humor me,” I pouted.
“Why?”
He rubbed the bridge of his nose, which was slightly pink in comparison to the rest of his bronze self.
Ha!
So Cruz Costello didn’t get an amazing tan all over. This insignificant imperfection made me feel way more happy than I should.
“Because we have eight more days after today to spend together in a stateroom the size of a postage stamp, and I want to know what to expect.”
“An abundance of alone time and zero hanky-panky.”
“You just said hanky-panky.” I may or may not have giggled.
“You say gasshole, lady. And I’m leaving.”
But he didn’t stand up, and I suspected I knew why. My eyes slid down to his crotch.
He shifted on the orange Moroccan deck chair, crossing his legs.
I pouted, pretending not to notice. “Not good enough for you, am I?”
“You’re full of bull, Tennessee Lilybeth Turner. You wouldn’t have me if I were the last man on Earth.”
He remembered my middle name.
A flutter passed under my belly button.
“And why do you think that is?”
“Because you hate men.” His ’stache twitched. “All of them. No exceptions. We scare you. You do realize Bear’s going to grow up to become one, too, right?”
Yes, and I’d rather not think about it.
There was a beat of silence. I didn’t deny his analysis. There was no point.
We both leaned back on our sunbeds, watching people doing laps in the pool, couples making out and splashing one another.
“What’re you thinking about?” he asked after a few minutes.
“Why’re you asking?”
“You always think about weird stuff. Like that pearl thing. The blister story.”
“That’s a hard fact, Dr. Costello.”
“Well.” He tipped his ball cap down, like a cowboy, a smile tugging on his lips under his perfect mustache. “Indulge me.”
I frowned. “I’m thinking there are so many germs and semi-exposed genitalia happening in this water every single day. There’s absolutely no way on Earth you’ll find me inside a cruise ship’s pool.”
He laughed.
“What are you thinking about?” I asked.
“That you’re different from what I thought,” he said. “Very different.”
“Whatever,” I answered, because he didn’t seem like he said it in a bad way, but frankly, I had enough pride that I didn’t want to be caught fishing for compliments twice in ten minutes.
“So. Wanna have dinner together? A friendly dinner,” he asked.
“You’re buying.”
“It’s free.”
I sighed. “The drinks, too?”
“I’m afraid so.”
A woman walked by in a fancy dress.
“Then how about a nice Prada dress? I really do want to live the kept woman life, even if only for a day.”
“That’s a no.”
“Ugh.” I rolled my eyes. “You’re a clappy husband, Mr. Weiner.”
“And you have a weird aversion to profanity.”
He got up and offered me a hand, and I took it.
And that’s when the trouble began.
If this cruise had taught me anything med school hadn’t, other than the fact Tennessee Turner had no future in the travel business, it was that you could, in fact, have a three-hour erection without prescribed erectile medication.
Fine, five.
Six, but honestly, more like five-and-a-half.
Non. Freaking. Stop.
At first, I’d noticed her from across the pool, tiny pink bikini on her supermodel figure, tanning her ass.
There was not one man in the vicinity who didn’t drink her up with his eyes, until finally, every self-respecting woman in the area dragged her beau from that row of seats, leaving Tennessee completely alone and easy prey.
I’d watched from a safe distance, the majority of my blood concentrated between my legs and again wondered why she was so hard to avoid on a cruise ship the size of Long Island.
I’d planned to catch up on some medical journals, but the only thing I learned during the afternoon was that Tennessee Turner had zero bad angles.
Trust me—I checked.
Finally, a tatted fuckboy put some moves on her.
I’d studied her reaction closely. Word around town was that she was a hussy, but I had a zero-bull-crap policy and only believed what my eyes could see when it came to people.
And what I noticed over the years was that Tennessee not only actively blocked everyone’s advances, but she hadn’t been seen with a man since Robert Gussman.
I could tell by her body language that Tennessee didn’t appreciate her new admirer’s attentions. I struggled with staying out of the situation, until the asshole put his hand on her elbow.
I was there in half a second, shooed him away, and stuck around for the—wait for it—conversation.
Because, as it turned out, Tennessee Turner was pretty damn entertaining to be around. Or, at least, she didn’t blow smoke up my ass and treat me like I walked on water (although I didn’t doubt for a second she’d unceremoniously toss me off the ship just to be sure).
She was the only person in Fairhope who saw past my shiny exterior, and I was curious to know what, exactly, she was seeing.
We made our way to our room. I carried her straw beach tote, grateful to have something to conceal my raging hard-on as she blabbered happily about the strategy we’d use for the open buffet we’d chosen for dinner.
She seemed to mistake a cruise vacation for a war, and was getting pretty animated about it.
“The poultry and meat section is always packed. The lines are terrible, I noticed yesterday. I suggest you stand there and get each of us double portions while I take care of the pasta and salads. Unless you want potatoes with your meat? I don’t know. I don’t think I can look at potatoes the same way since I started working at Jerry & Sons. Coulter has done some pretty dreadful things with them over the years.”