Page 20 of Summertime Friends

I read for, I don’t know how long, easily two or three hours. It was long enough that the sun was dipping in the sky and no longer directly above me.

Sitting up enough to reach into my bag to check for news on Natalie’s flight, my body tingles as if someone is watching me.

Turning my head to the right, there on a bench about ten feet away from me sits—no, is that the guy from yesterday? I squint my eyes, trying to get a better look. He has a book in his hands, but based on the orientation of his head, I suspect it’s unread. Straightforward toward me, not down at the book.

I can’t confirm if it’s him, but the smile he swiftly flashes eerily resembles the one from the coffee shop.

Before I have a chance to stare any longer, he gets up. Tucking the book under his armpit, he pushes his sunglasses to the top of his head through a mess of dense brown hair.

It’s him.

“Take a picture next time. It’ll last longer.” His voice is husky, a mellifluous ruggedness to the British accent.

“I could say the same to you,” I retort.

He laughs. It’s deep and involves his entire upper body. “Okay, States.” Turning on the balls of his feet, he walks away.

Annoyed, I slam my book shut.

His gaze leaves a buzzing sensation that I can’t shake.

I take off after him.

He’s quick; after a few blocks, I’ve lost him in the crowd. I should turn around and leave, return to the hotel, and forget about him.

He didn’t sound like he was from here, so what are the odds I’d ever see him again? None. Then why is it that after seeing him twice, I’m becoming obsessed with the way that he looks at me?

He has the type of eyes that should come with trigger warnings such as 'Don’t get yourself involved, or you’ll end up hurt’.

But when he stared at me yesterday and today—I determined that was what he was doing on the bench. It was in a way that no one had looked at me before.

Lost in the depths of the remnants of his stare, I run directly into a barrier separating the sidewalk and the street for cars to drive on.

That's going to leave a mark.

A hand reaches out to catch me before I slam into the bricks. It wraps around my forearm, and another comes to my back.

My eyes catch on the tan skin stretched across muscular hands. Can hands be muscular? I don’t know if I’ve ever actually noticed or paid attention to hands before. The palm is soft and warm except for the area right below the fingers, which is rough. Small calluses scratch my skin, sending goosebumps up my arm.

“Do you work out your hands?” I ask aloud, with no filter on my brain or mouth and no care about who the hands belong to.Shit, Emerson, that’s embarrassing.

“Flattered, but no,” a husky voice says.

It’s him.

I lift my head to meet his. “They’re rather muscly.”

“Some would say they’re large.”

“And hard.”

My response sits there between us.

Realization of what I just said hits me. My cheeks heat, and I know they are turning an unfortunate shade of magenta, bypassing a flirtatious blush.

“That is how I am often described.” He doesn’t falter in his tone.

Oh my gosh, he is not helping here. I burst out laughing. I don’t know if it’s because I’m embarrassed at the interaction or that, from where I’m still positioned, my eyes easily find that part of him.

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