Page 53 of The Emerson Effect
I don’t remember much about the journey down to the pool. My entire focus remains on our hands knotted together and the way it makes me feel. When we suddenly emerge out into the hot, dry air, it’s a bit of a shock. I don’t know how we got here.
We find two lounge chairs in the shade of a large umbrella, and Twila saves them while I jog over to the towel rack to grab two for us. When I get back, she has a bottle of spray sunscreen in her hand and she’s untying the swath of white cloth around her waist with the other. I swallow thickly as I watch all that skin reveal itself, and I have to look away to regain my equilibrium.
“Can you do my back?” she asks, and I fight to keep a neutral expression as I nod and take the bottle from her.
She spins around to give me her back. Her long hair is tied up into a braided bun, so I lift the can and spray her from her shoulders to the waistband of her tiny bikini bottoms. Lifting the can over her shoulder, I wait for her to take it, hold my breath, and press my palms to her back. I keep my gaze locked elsewhereas I quickly rub in the spray, because if I watch my hands rove over her soft skin, I’m going to embarrass myself.
My trunks aren’t tight, but they definitely wouldn’t hide anything if I popped a boner. Fuck, that would be creepy as hell, wouldn’t it?
I’m no creep, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. I quickly finish rubbing it in, and she thanks me before spraying the rest of her exposed skin. I stretch out on my lounge chair, keeping my eyes on the sparkling pool before me while trying not to imagine what Twila’s doing on the chair next to me.
“Want me to do you?”
I was concentrating so hard on the water, her voice startles me. My head jerks her way, and she’s holding up the can of sunscreen and wiggling it in my direction.
Fuck no.
“I’m good for now,” I say, proud that my voice only sounds the tiniest bit strangled.
If she puts her hands on me, it’s over. I’ll get hard in an instant, she’ll be disgusted, and this weekend away will end before it even starts.
“I’m going to cool off,” I say a bit too loudly.
Jumping to my feet, I rip my shirt over my head and drop it to the chair. Without even a glance at Twila, I jump into the water and dunk under, swimming to the far side of the pool without coming up for air.
When I think I’ve got my urges under control, I swim back to the other side and prop my elbows on the edge of the pool in front of Twila.
“You should come in. The water is perfect,” I say, and she smiles before rising from her chair.
She jumps in, feet first, next to me. When she surfaces, she’s wearing an evil grin. Before I can move to protect myself, she splashes me in the face and turns to swim away. My hand shootsout and brushes against her ankle, but she slips away before I can get a good grip. Laughing, I swim after her. My long strokes eat up the distance in a second, and she squeals as I grab her ankle and drag her backward.
She twists in the water with a laugh and splashes me again, but my grip doesn’t loosen. I manage to get my arms around her waist, then I lift her and fall backward, dunking us both. She comes up sputtering, but wastes no time jumping on me, pushing my shoulders down to dunk me again.
We play until we’re both worn out, then we leave the pool to stretch out on our chairs to dry in the warm Vegas air. I offer to move her chair into the sun, but she declines, saying she doesn’t want to burn. After another half-hour, my stomach starts to grumble.
Twila must hear it, because she looks over at me and smiles. “I’m starving. Should we go up and get showered and changed? We can have an early dinner.”
“Sounds perfect.” I shoot her a grateful look.
“Let’s go,” she says, hopping up and retying her sarong around her hips.
Damn, she looks good.
This weekend just got started, and I’m already in so much trouble.
TWENTY-NINE
Twila
I’m showered, dressed in a cute, flowery sundress paired with a lightweight white denim jacket and sandals, and I’ve finished drying my hair into fat waves and applying some light, natural-looking makeup. I stare at myself in the mirror with a critical eye.
What will Emerson think when he sees me?
I roll my eyes at my reflection as I cuff the sleeves of my jacket. It shouldn’t matter what he thinks. This is all an act, and as long as he appears smitten with me in public, we’ll be fine.
But I can’t lie to myself. Itmattersto me. I want him to find me attractive, and no amount of self-admonishment is going to change that. He’s too good looking. Too nice. Too funny. Too fun, period.
I really need him to do something to give me the ick, or else I’m going to be spending this entire weekend trying to pretend like this thing is as fake for me as it is for him.
