Page 73 of Tilly in Technicolor
“Honestly, Oliver, do you think Ieverhave a plan?” Tilly says, turning around and tapping me on the nose before skipping down the path. “Being planless and pantsless are my two favorite states of being.”
“I beg your pardon?” I choke out. Great. Now, I’m picturing her without pants. Good lord, this girl is clearly trying to kill me.
“Beg away, darling,” Tilly says in that awful attempt of a Cockney accent she has.
She cuts left suddenly, squeezing between a thick tangle of shrubs. I stop short, hesitating to dive into unknown flora that could easily give me a rash.
And then Tilly gasps and the sound kicks my heart into overdrive that something bad happened.
I plunge into the plants.
And nearly run Tilly over.
She’s staring straight ahead, mouth hanging open. My eyes get stuck on her. The curve of her nose. The white edge of her teeth. The angle of her jaw and the way her shallow breaths make her chest rise and fall.
Tilly is lovely. There’s no other way to phrase it.
Without looking at me, she reaches up her hand, placing her fingers on my cheek and swiveling my head so I can see what has her attention.
And, wow, her gasp wasn’t an exaggeration.
A cerulean pool—a lullaby for my senses—is shaded by a ring of small trees and shrubs, a gentle stream trickling down rocks and into the basin. Beams of sunlight glint off the surface in little golden triangles, turning the tropical pocket into a kaleidoscope of beauty and color.
I sense Tilly’s gaze land on me, and I turn to her. We look at each other in awed silence for a moment, before both breaking into grins.
“Let’s go,” she says, disrupting the silence in that wonderful way of hers.
Next thing I know, I’m no longer picturing Tilly without trousers on. She’s demonstrating the look in real time after kicking off her shoes and peeling away her socks. She rips off her T-shirt next, then stands there for a moment, in nothing but her underwear and sports bra, a square of light making her absolutely glow. She lets out a giddy screech, sprints toward the water, and jumps in.
Bloody. Fucking. Hell.
Tilly’s head bobs to the surface, and she raises her smile to the sun.
“Oliver. Get in here. It’s perfect.” She ducks back under the water.
In a haze, I shuck off my black T-shirt and trousers, shoulders hunching in on myself in awkwardness.
Tilly resurfaces again, looking around then smiling when her eyes land on me. The water has her hair a midnight black, the sun illuminating her from behind.
“What are you waiting for?” she shrieks.
Something about that smile, the unbridled happiness in her voice, has my shoulders squaring and my legs marching straight to the edge, jumping in like she did moments ago.
The water hugs me, muting every sense like a sigh of reliefas I sink. I open my eyes, nothing but a fuzzy Pantone 3025—a deep and fathomless green-blue—surrounding me. When I tilt my head up, slashes of silver sparkle at the surface. Where Tilly is. I kick myself toward her.
“Told you it was perfect,” Tilly says, when I find her in the sunlight.
All I can do is smile at her.
We float around for a while, the water gently pushing us together then pulling us apart in its natural rhythm. It’s impossible not to feel peaceful in the calm of the water and warm day. This little pocket-sized paradise must have a bit of magic, because it shrinks the great, big, noisy, vast world and its echoes in my brain down to a hum.
Eventually, Tilly holds up her wrinkled fingers and, in a voice mimicking a terrifying old woman, complains of getting pruney. We get out of the water and sit on the sun-warmed rocks.
I pull my black T-shirt back on, then my trousers. I don’t really like the way the sun feels on my skin. Tilly apparently doesn’t mind, because she stretches out on the rock, rays of sunlight kissing every inch of her. It takes more willpower than I care to admit to keep from ogling her.
“Can I tell you something?” she asks, turning her head and using her hand to shield her eyes as she looks at me.
“You can tell me anything.”
