Page 41 of Swept Away

“We can do me after,” he says, unoffended. “No shortage of shampoo—or seawater.”

This is true: we have plenty of seawater available. A lot more than we’d like.

“Your spa is prepared, madam,” says Zeke, once I thump a full bucket of seawater down on the deck and begin untying the rope from its handle.

I glance up to see him topless in his now-battered velvet trousers, with a new clean strip of one of my T-shirts tied around his midriff. He’s got a washing-up sponge in one hand and his bottle of shampoo in the other. It’s a manly black-packaged one, calledRechargeorRavageor something equally masculine, like the mere fact of washing is inexcusably feminine and must be counteracted by all means possible. It’s not really Zeke’s style, and the way he’s examining the label makes me think it wasn’t his.

“Nicked it from Brady, my flatmate,” he says, seeing my expression. “I’m a terrible packer. Hate it. I leave it to the last minute because I know I’ll forget ten things anyway.”

He’s mentioned his friend Brady before—the name always conjures up a loping, teenage roommate, thoughtless and yawning. I find these peeks into Zeke’s real life both fascinating and unsettling; it’s almost impossible to imagine. I wonder if he’s different back home. I wonder if I am.

“How are we doing this, then?” I ask, diverting my attention to the sloshing bucket on the deck. “I kneel like I’m about to be beheaded?”

That makes Zeke laugh. He crouches down beside me as I throw my hair forward over the bucket and lower my head in as best I can. The water is much colder than I expected, but I’m sweating with the exertion of pulling up the rope, and the sun is so hot I don’t mind the shock of it.

“Hold still,” Zeke says, dunking the sponge in the bucket and then squeezing it over my head.

I shriek as a rivulet comes jetting down my neck, soaking the top of my T-shirt.

“Sorry,” Zeke says, but I shake my head.

“No, this is great.”

Zeke starts to rub the shampoo through my hair, and I let out a moan. It just feels so good—the clean, cologne-ish scent of the shampoo, the feeling of the water on the skin of my scalp, his fingers massaging me.

Zeke stills for a moment, shifting slightly, then resumes. I close my eyes, forget all about the fact that I’m bent over a bucket of seawater, and just think about his thumbs rubbing over the muscles at the base of my skull.

He clears his throat. “You need to…OK. Hmm. You need to not make those sounds?”

My eyes fly open. “Oh. Umm.”

“Sorry. It’s just…quite…distracting.”

I can’t decide whether to laugh or blush. “Got you,” I say, pressing my lips together.

I shouldn’t be gratified, but I am. Sometimes, when I look at Zeke, it strikes me as totally impossible that he slept with me. He’s so gorgeous, so young, so…I don’t know, the word that comes to mind isspecial. I bite down on a smile. It’s nice to know that I’m adistraction, even if I am essentially the only woman on the planet right now.

He rinses my hair out carefully, cupping his hand at the back of my neck to stop the water drenching me too badly.

“Lexi! I’m not even rubbing you.”

I start laughing. I hadn’t noticed myself making a sound.

“Sorry. It just feels really good. Shutting up now.”

Zeke’s bare forearms move on the edge of my vision, muscles bunching, water droplets shining on his tanned skin.

“You want me to wring it out?” he says eventually. “Untangle it?”

My hair is long—it reaches down to my waist. It’s very impractical hair, and a total vanity thing, as Penny always likes to point out to me.You kick around all day in stained trackies but you groom that hair like it’s your pet, she told me last week, when she caught me running oil through the ends after my shower. So many elements of this memory feel alien to me now: Penny, showers, the luxurious smell of hair oil.

I should say no—I can wring out my hair myself.

“Would you?” I find myself saying instead. I like being like this, with his hands in my hair, and knowing he likes it more than he should.

He hesitates for just a moment, then shifts the bucket aside.

“Sit back,” he says, fingers combing against my scalp.

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