My fingers twitched. I’d never touched him there, that low on his belly, had never touched him anywhere on his bare stomach or chest or back, only casual, friendly touches to his arms or hands. What it would it feel like, to trace my fingertips along the elastic of his boxers? Would his muscles twitch? Would his skin be soft? Warm?
Would he like it, me touching him?
I wiped my damp palms down the front of my shorts. Those thoughts were dangerous. Dangerous and inappropriate and had been occurring way, way too frequently for my peace of mind. They left me jittery and uneasy, scared and confused.
Jerking my gaze upward, I watched the steady fall and rise of his chest, my eyes on his interlaced hands as I counted each breath he took. Matched my own breathing to his until the jitteriness soothed. The uneasiness calmed.
But the fear and confusion remained.
They’d always been there, lingering in the background, coloring every moment I had with Sam. But lately they’d been pushing to the forefront, demanding more and more of my time. My attention.
If I wasn’t careful, they’d take over and everything between us would be ruined.
“Let’s go swimming,” I blurted and Sam twitched in surprise. Well, my words had been sort of sudden. And loud.
After pushing his hat back on top of his head, he rose onto his elbows. “Now?”
I couldn’t meet his eyes, not when I’d just been imagining what it’d look like, my hand on his stomach, so I hopped off the truck, kept my back to him as I pretended to brush something from my leg. “Yeah. We can swing by your house, go for a quick dip, then go to the McClains’.”
“No time. Our lunch break is over in twenty minutes.”
I turned, the dry grass prickly under my bare feet, as he pulled an apple out of his lunch pail and offered it to me. But it wasn’t the fruit that tempted me, it was him. Him and his stupid, sweaty ball cap, dark, watchful eyes and grass-stained clothes.
Adam and Eve we weren’t. Though if I thought about it, the stereotypes fit.
Wasn’t Eve the one who led Adam down a path of sin and rebellion?
Not quite the same as trying to get Sam to take a few extra minutes at lunch, but still…
I shook my head at the apple and he shrugged and bit into it himself.
“That’s plenty of time. And no one’s home at the McClains’,” I pointed out. “They’ll never know if we’re a few minutes late.”
The more I thought about it, the better my idea sounded. A swim would cool me off and clear my mind of any more thoughts about touching Sam.
“Come on,” I said. “It may be eighty-six degrees now, but it’s only noon. It could climb into the hundreds within a few hours.”
It probably wouldn’t, but it could. Anything’s possible, right?
Even talking Sam Constable into stepping just one toe outside the lines of good behavior.
“We’ll be quick,” I continued as he munched away on the apple, not the least bit enticed to go with my plan. This was so not how the whole Adam and Eve thing went in Eden. “Ten. Fifteen minutes, tops.”
“Mr. G.’s counting on us to be back to work at one.”
Why did he have to be so stubborn? So endlessly, continuously perfect?
“Mr. G. doesn’t have to know,” I said, and yeah, I pouted a bit. Sue me. “No one does. And if we are caught—which isn’t going to happen—we’ll say we had trouble with the truck or that one of us wasn’t feeling well.”
Sam looked at me as if I’d suggested we knock Mr. G. over the head with a shovel and hide his body in the compost collector.
“What?” I asked, that single judgmental look making me defensive and, I might add, seriously ticked off.
Not quite the emotions I’d been hoping to get to, but I’d take them.
“We’re not going to lie to Mr. G,” he said, sounding like my dad or something—if my dad had bothered sticking around long enough to use that disappointed tone, that is. The only things missing were a young lady and this is the end of the conversation.
“It’s not lying. It’s a little fib about being a few minutes late.”
If he’d stop arguing with me, we could be halfway to his house by now instead of wasting even more of that time he’s so worried about.
“It’s lying,” he said, his tone quiet and final. And more than a little holier than thou. “And I don’t lie.”
That was the problem. And part of the reason I didn’t want to let this go. Not because I wanted him to lie, necessarily. I just wanted him to be a little less perfect. Just once I wanted us to be more equal.
Maybe then I’d stop feeling like I was so far beneath him.
I snorted. Like that would ever happen. Sam was everything good—honest, trustworthy, responsible, kind.
He was so much better than me.
“Hey,” he said, getting to his feet. He ducked his head to see my face beneath the brim of my hat. “We’ll take water breaks every twenty minutes this afternoon. And I’ll let you work the shadiest parts of the McClains’ yard.”
The goodness never ended.
Was it any wonder my feelings for him were so confused?
If he’d just be a dick every once in a while, I wouldn’t have this problem.
My movements jerky, I turned and grabbed my backpack, rifled through it for my sunscreen. “So I can feel guilty when you’re burnt to a crisp, dehydrated and dying of heat stroke? No, thanks.”
Putting the apple in his mouth, he lifted his hat off with one hand, ran his other hand through his hair, then turned the hat and put it on backwards, a few tufts of dark hair sticking out from under the edge. All the while he watched me, like I was one wrong word away from ripping his head off and drop-kicking it off the side of the hill.
Which, yeah, wasn’t that far from the truth.
After taking another bite, he took the apple out of his mouth. Chewed and swallowed. “Is something wrong? You’re acting…”
I froze, sunscreen bottle in one hand, eyes narrowed to slits. “How am I acting?”
I already knew. I was acting like a crazy person. A hot, sweaty, cranky bitch who couldn’t control her thoughts or feelings. I wouldn’t even blame him if he asked if I was PMSing.
I’d go ahead with that head-ripping-off, drop-kicking thing, but I wouldn’t blame him.
“Off,” he finally settled on because even when I was at my worst, Sam was at his best.
And he deserved way better than me taking some weird mood out on him. It wasn’t his fault I wanted something I couldn’t have.
I sighed, contrite and embarrassed to have lashed out at him for no reason.
Well, no reason I could give to him, anyway.
“I’m fine,” I said, my gaze on the sunscreen I squeezed into my palm. “Let’s just forget it.”
Bending over, I rubbed the sunscreen into my calves.
“We’ll go swimming after work,” Sam said, leaning one hip against the tailgate. “I’ll even let you pick what we get for dinner.”
Friday nights we got takeout and while Sam’s choice was always pizza (and I mean always) I liked to vary mine.
“You won’t let me pick,” I said, straightening and squirting more sunscreen into my hand, then setting the bottle on the tailgate so I could apply it to my arms, “it’s my turn. But it’s going to have to wait until next week because I’m not coming over tonight.”