Page 30 of Sea La Vie
My eyes meet hers for one heartbeat, then two. Gosh, those eyes. I could get lost in them. I will myself to stay grounded where I am and focus on the task at hand, and finally, she turns and walks out of the room.
“Anything for you, Lainey,” I whisper.
11
Lainey
Relax. I can relax. I sit on the corner of my bed and notice the pile of clothes in the corner that has been staring at me for weeks now. I could fold those.
“Are you relaxing?!” I hear Tate yell from downstairs. I shake my head and smile. Maybe he still knows me better than I thought he did.
It’s too stormy out right now to pick up my fliers from Lucille—I made sure to lock all my doors after she left—and the water is too choppy to take the boat out. I flop down onto the worn quilt covering my bed and shove my face into my pillow, then replay our almost kiss in the kitchen for the millionth time since it happened minutes ago. Only, instead of relaxing me, I’m more keyed up and tense than before.
Thunder booms outside, lightning filters through the blinds and lights up the room. I push off the bed and wander down the hallway and into the bathroom, eyeing the clawfoot tub and a face mask sitting on the shelf. I slather my face in the green goopthen turn the faucet all the way to the right, as hot as it will go, and step out of my cutoffs before pulling my shirt over my head.
A groan escapes me as I slide into the water, and I close my eyes, allowing the water to penetrate all the muscles I’ve neglected since taking over dad’s fishing boat. I can’t remember the last time I’ve taken a bath, and it feels amazing.
The only thing that could make this better is an episode or two of New Girl. I scan the bathroom for my phone and realize I must’ve left it in the bedroom. Reluctantly, I climb out of the tub, wrap a towel around me, and wind my hair up in another one. I poke my head out, scanning for any sign of Tate and tiptoe to my room to snag my phone off my bed. When I pass the stairs that lead into the kitchen, another idea hits me. “Tate?” I holler. “Tate, are you down there?” I wait for his reply but am met with silence. He must’ve finished the dishes and headed out, probably to finish renovations on his cottage.
With the coast clear, I scamper down the stairs and find a carton of orange juice and a bottle of champagne tucked in the back of the fridge, leftover from Eden’s birthday party a couple weeks ago. “Bingo,” I whisper to myself. I shut the fridge door with my foot and whirl around to head back to the bathroom, absently humming some pop song. When I round the corner, I’m met with a wall. A very tall, very handsome wall.
I back up a few feet and stare up at Tate, mortified. “Oh my gosh, what are you doing?” I yell at the same time Tate pulls out his ear buds and asks, “What’s on your face?” I back farther away, wielding my champagne bottle as a weapon.
“Please don’t hit me with that cheap screw top champagne,” Tate pleads, his face twisted in disgust. “Let me have enough dignity to go down with a middle shelf grade at least.”
I peer down at the champagne bottle and frown. “What’s wrong with this one?”
“Everything. Everything is wrong with that headache-inducing sugar coma disguised as champagne,” Tate says. “You should really go for a—”
“Don’t change the subject!” I screech. “I yelled for you and you didn’t answer! I thought you were gone!”
“I was cleaning up the living room from last night! I didn’t want to leave a mess! I didn’t hear you!” Tate wails and gestures to the ear buds in his hand.
“Cover your eyes!” I cry. “Now! Cover them! And get out!”
Tate’s hands fly to his eyes. “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry. I’m leaving now.” With his hands still over his eyes, he jogs straight toward the wall. And hits it.
“Out!” I yell again.
“Leaving!” he says, cheeks red with embarrassment. I point to the door, unable to contain my hiccuping laughs any longer. Tate hurriedly walks out into the rain and jogs down the sidewalk. I tighten the towel around me and prop my hip against the door frame, wondering how long it’ll take him to figure it out. A minute later I see him pass by the house again. “Wrong way!” He yells with a quick wave, other hand still placed over his eyes.
The old heavy oak door closes with a squeak on its rusty hinges, and I let myself sink back into it, overcome with laughter.
“He washedanddried your dishes?” Eden asks, wide eyed. She’s got her elbow on the counter, head propped up by it. “I think he likes you, Lainey.”
“No, definitely not,” I say. Although, I still can’t stop replaying our almost kiss. Every time I do, I inwardly groan knowing what came next—I cannot believe I ran into the man half naked.
“Even if he did,” I tell Eden, “He’s going back to Charlotte as soon as he fixes his family’s cottage and sells it. And he’s such a city boy. Again, not my type.”
“You haven’t dated enough to even have a type,” Eden points out.
As if summoned, the bell above the door jingles, and Tate saunters in.
“Morning,” he says to Eden, flashing us his perfect smile. He glances over at me shyly.
“Morning,” I say in return. He’s wearing a black tee, a pair of joggers, and tortoiseshell glasses I’ve never seen before. His dark hair is still damp from his shower, a lock falling perfectly down his forehead, and there’s new stubble on his chin that typically isn’t there. He rakes a hand through his hair and his citrusy-pine scent tickles my nose in the best way.
I gulp and pray it wasn’t loud enough to notice. I haven’t seen him likethisyet.Look away Lainey.Except, I don’t take my own advice and sneak a peek for just a second longer. Eden catches my eye and hides a smirk behind a fake yawn.
