Page 9 of To Have and to Scold

She blanches and rolls her eyes. “It’s not like he and I had dated very long. Trust me, it’s better this way.” She shivers again, looks away, and wraps her arms more tightly around herself. “I just wish McKenna had told me about it from the beginning. We used to tell each other everything.”

After a moment, I widen my stance, do a fake stretch, and toss a glance as I rotate around. Sure enough, there is a couple a few yards away and they are all over each other. Like attached at the hip—both hips. I feel uncomfortable and I don’t even know them.

“And she’s your cousin?” I whisper.

“Yeah.” She cringes and then laughs. “It’s a little awkward.”

“It wouldn’t hurt for me to sort of know, for sure, if you’re actually a professional cuddler. I’m guessing you could be good at it.” It’s true. For all her feistiness, there’s a warmth about her.

She laughs and waves me away. Is she not getting what I’m implying?

WhatamI even implying? I’m not sure. All I know is, there’s a beautiful woman who’s obviously having a rough night getting spat on by Prince Harry and then seeing her ex with her cousin, and she seems either cold or sad, or both. So what would it hurt to give her a hug? Besides, maybe it would somehow stick it to the couple behind us.

She starts to walk away, the heel of her foot slipping in the sand, when she suddenly wheels around. “So, do you actually want to know if I’m a professional cuddler?”

Her look is daring me. And Heaven help me, I want to. I’d love to hug her. In a platonic way, of course.

“I’m dying to know.” I hold up my hands. “But no pressure.”

She twists her mouth to one side and steps towards me. “You know eight-second hugs are very therapeutic,” she says.

“Did you learn that from Brené Brown?” I ask.

She shoots me a look, takes another step, and wraps her arms around my waist.

She’d pushed up her sports coat sleeves near her elbows and she really is cold, with goosebumps and everything. I rub her arms and settle in. The smell of her shampoo—peachy with a hint of coconut. Her softness—part of that elixir I was trying to avoid earlier.

“Are you timing this?” I ask, only to distract myself.

Her breath is warm through my T-shirt. “We’re at five seconds. Milk the last three, buddy.”

I resist the urge to rub circles on her back. “Oh, I am. Except for the benefit of our audience back there, maybe we should go longer.”

“They’re probably not paying any attention.” She swallows and exhales sharply. “They’re a little busy.”

I take a couple of side steps and rotate around, with her still in my arms, so that she’s now directly in their line of sight. Go big or go home, right?

I gaze down at her head resting squarely on my chest. My lower chest. “You’re short.”

“And your point is?”

I laugh. “No point. Just trying to make conversation.”

She settles even closer to me. “Why do we need conversation?” An undercurrent of frisson slices between us.

I take in a breath. I’m enjoying this more than I expected. “Because I promised a friendly, non-sexual hug,” I say.

“Which, by the way, has gone on a lot longer than eight seconds.”

I hold my breath, waiting for her to step away. But she doesn’t. And I’m sure not going to until I know she’s done.

Because I’m not done. The woman is tiny. Fiery. Cute. I was not expecting her to fit in my arms so perfectly.

She drops her head back but continues to hold me around my middle. “The stars are like flecks of flaky salt across a black marble slab.” Her voice catches.

Rotating her head again, she rests it against me once more, this time tilted up so she can still see where the sky meets the ocean.

This hug, the best one I’ve had in recent memory, is definitely going on longer than eight seconds.

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