Page 6 of Tin

No. Now he could easily have come flying out of a Ron Jon’s Surf Shop billboard. With his board shorts hanging low on his hips, revealing way too damn much by the way, and his seamless tan that makes his mass of muscle body only that much more fascinating, I can barely swallow my saliva fast enough to keep from drooling. And can we talk about the tattoos? Holy hell. The man is covered in some beautiful ink. I understand the conservative shirt from earlier so much more now. He has full sleeves on both arms, reaching up over his shoulders and down his chest. He has another pretty large piece on his left thigh, and who knows what’s happening on his back.

If Kirsten thought he looked like a loser in his dirty jeans with his two-day-old scruff and shaggy blond hair before, she would have a slew of new unpleasant terms for him now. So do I, incidentally. None of which my sister would be pleased to hear.

I wipe the corners of my mouth because, mentally, I’m drooling all over him. My eyes travel leisurely past his collarbone and up to his face. And. I. Want. To. Die.

He’s staring straight at me while I’m still busy staring at him. And he isn’t laughing anymore. He’s smirking. Which makes me both weak in the knees and dizzy from the heat rushing to my head.

“Funny. You suddenly don’t seem pissed off at me anymore.” He glares at me smugly. It’s like he can see straight through me with those deep-blue eyes of his. With the evening sky glowing behind him, they look eerily dark, like there’s a storm brewing inside them. Or maybe it has nothing to do with the sky. Maybe it’s just him.

“Oh, I’m still plenty pissed,” I scoff, but my attempt at anger fails now that it’s lacking in aim and motivation.

“Clearly.” He folds his arms over his chest, and I have to swallow an actual whimper at the sight of his muscles in motion.Damn him.

“Whatever, dude. If we’re done here, I’m going to take my dog and go home.” I motion for Harley to get up. He’s been lying in the sand, quietly watching us from about three feet away. “Come on, Harley.”

“What happened to his leg?” Cowboy drops down to a squat to get a better look at my dog.

“Why do you care? You hate dogs, remember?” I place my hands on my hips, mostly because I don’t really know what to do with myself right now. Then I have a flash of Kirsten in the exact same position and instantly drop them back to my sides.

“I never said I hated dogs.” And Cowboy shocks me for the second time. He looks genuinely offended and even slightly hurt.

“You fucking tackled me because of my dog.” Since my arms have no real job right now, they’re just sort of flying around dramatically, trying to move with my emotions. Which are all over the place right now, so, you know, I’m sure I look pretty ridiculous.

“I didn’t tackle you. You tripped me. And it wasn’t because I hate dogs. I just...fuck it.” He exhales loudly. “I was in a shit mood, and I was looking for someone to blame. Then your dog barked and interrupted the only moment of peace I’ve had all day, and I went with it.” He glances back up at me over his shoulder. “I’m sorry. It was an asshole move. And contrary to popular belief, I’m actually not an asshole. All the time.”

I twist my lips back and forth to keep from smiling. I don’t know what Cowboy’s deal is, and I don’t want to know. But damn it all to hell if he keeps making me do involuntary things with my mouth.

“I didn’t trip you.” Because being stubborn is all I have left right now.

He chuckles. “Fine. You didn’t trip me. You’re right. I tackled you. On purpose. Now will you please tell me why your dog only has three legs?”

This time his charm doesn’t make my panties want to dematerialize. On the contrary. His question about Harley’s leg makes my blood run ice cold, and all the feelings I had mere seconds ago freeze with it.

I look at Cowboy one last time, then pat my thigh to cue Harley to start walking. “No.”

I start jogging back toward the house. I’m still fumbling with my earbuds, so I can hear him moving in the sand behind me.

“What the hell is your problem now?”

I spin back around, this time careful not to cut into his path again. “You are. In case you missed it, I was out here running. With earbuds. I wasn’t trying to make small talk. I was trying to blow off some steam.”

Cowboy takes a step toward me. And another. Until he’s standing so close I can feel another whimper climb up my throat. Jesus Christ, what is this man doing to me? I feel like I’m running a fever the way I’m going back and forth between chills and hot flashes.

“You’re right. Small talk really isn’t working for us.” His voice drops two octaves again like it had when he was standing annoyingly close to me outside the barn.

“No shit.” I force myself to hold his stare. The storm in his eyes is clearer than ever. I’m not the only broken person standing here. He’s just as fucked up as I am. And even though that thought alone should make me break into a sprint toward home immediately, it doesn’t.

“You really wanna blow off some steam?” His deep voice rumbles past my ears along with the wind.

Still feeling the pierce of his eyes as they keep me locked into place, all I can do is nod. I don’t have to ask what he has in mind. The tension between us is roaring louder than the ocean behind us. I should be terrified. Scared of drowning in it. Of drowning in him. But I’m not. Because you can’t drown when you’re used to being at the bottom of the ocean. The waves don’t scare me. They’re just a welcome promise of change. And I go with them.

Following him up the private boardwalk up to the house, I’m suddenly having second thoughts about this whole thing. For starters, I’m disgusting. Meanwhile, he looks like he just jumped out of the shower. Not me. I’m not only drenched in sweat and covered in sand, I’m still walking around with several layers of dust and grime from hanging out in the barn all afternoon.

The fact that none of this seems to be an issue for him tells me one of two things: either he finds me irresistible beyond reason, and any and all senses that would give away my current condition—e.g., sight and smell—have been completely dulled because of it, or his standards are so ungodly low that even a nasty, dirty, soulless girl like me can meet them, in which case I should probably turn around and walk away right now, because if he’s willing to sleep with me...well, let’s be real,Iwouldn’t be willing to sleep with me.

Sad fact is, it’s probably the latter, which brings me back to my second thoughts, and now third because for some unknown reason I’m still following him.

“This is your place?” It’s bigger than Kirsten’s. I wonder if she knows there’s a house this size within a three-mile radius of hers.

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