Page 14 of Dirty Roxie
“My what iswhat?”
“Nachos are not South American cuisine.”
“Oh, of course,excuseme. What is then?”
“South American? Ceviche, empanadas, chimichurri with steak—”
“Okay, okay, fine, what do you want then?” I interrupt him because he’s even doing thatRrolling thing when he says words like chimichurri, and it’s driving me nuts.
“Well, we’re in Colombia, we should try Colombian cuisine.”
“Fine—ceviche with chips.”
“Ceviche is South American, but not Colombian.”
“Are you fucking kidding me right now?”
“Do you see an ocean around?”
I look, even though I know the answer. “No.”
“Never order fresh fish when you can’t see the ocean.”
“That’s stupid, what if you don’t live near the ocean?”
“Then travel.” He shrugs his shoulders as if it’s that easy.
“So, I can borrow your plane the next time I have a hankering for sushi?”
He rolls his eyes.
The server reappears and asks Ronan, “Have you decided?”
I motion to him unnecessarily, since she barely notices I exist. “Ask him,” I add, also unnecessarily.
He orders something that sounds a lot like bended pasta and what I’m pretty sure is an avocado and tomato salad. Or salsa. The server compliments him on his choices and rushes off to do his bidding.
What must it be like having people hanging on and tending to your every word constantly? Would it be fabulous? Or boring as fuck?
My stomach growls a non-answer. Luckily, I’m not too picky with food, so I figure on the off chance that I don’t like it I’ll just order the nachos.
“You’re starting to pink.” Ronan gestures to my shoulders.
“Curse of the pale-skinned redhead. Would you mind?” I hand him my bottle of suntan lotion, then pick my fake hair up off my neck and turn my back to him to let him spread lotion on me.
The moment his skin touches mine, I realize there are so many things I should have done instead of this. The zing that shoots through me and settles into my nether regions instantly dampen my bikini bottoms and warm me from the inside out, acting like a tidal wave against my senses.
Warning! Danger imminent.
It would have been better if I’d gone through the hotel lobby, asking any number of random strangers to do it over asking Ronan.
His hands are cool against my warming skin. Fingers slightly rough, spreading across the width of my shoulder blades, seeming to touch everywhere at once.
“You’re tense,” he says.
No shit, Sherlock.
I want to come back with something glib and sarcastic but lower my chin to my chest and groan in pleasure instead. The tips of his fingers dig into the tops of my shoulders while his thumbs push against my traps, kneading the sore muscles just under the surface of my skin.
Jesus, what else can those fingers do?
His hands are like magic.
I wriggle my shoulders a bit, trying to get him to go lower. He pushes at my upper back and I eagerly give in, lying face down on my lounger ready to let him do his thing.
