Page 22 of Contingently Yours
I am not going to admit I’m grateful that Lucas salvaged a moment of unpleasantness for our guests with his swimming idea. Stepping off the boat, I reaffirm some of the features of the resort we’re heading out to tomorrow, several miles to the south. We were actually able to get a glimpse of it today from the boat. I nearly missed it, too distracted by the sight of Lucas’ bare back when he stripped out of his tank top.
Did he do it to show off to Mason, who stuck by his side the entire trip under the comfort of the shade of the canopy? How inappropriate. The guy is married and his husbands were sitting right there on the boat. Doesn’t he know how that makes me look?
When the world’s worst and sweaty boyfriend finally meets us on the dock, he keeps up with the Boy Scout attitude he’s had all day, waving us on toward this swimming hole to top all swimming holes. There’s a fine sheen of sweat across his furrychest, but he’s the only one not panting from the heat. I didn’t think I could hate him anymore. Is he superhuman?
By the time we’re clearing the west side of the resort, Lucas is forty feet ahead of me. It’s too far and I’m too hot to yell that we lost Dario and Keenan, who decided to pop into the resort for more bottles of water while they wait for Mason.
Tripping over a rock, I wince when my flip-flop bends underneath my toes momentarily. “This is why I don’t fucking date,” I mutter under my breath, shaking the sand from my sandal. “They’re either inconsiderate or high-maintenance as shit. Who fucking needs it?”
If I’d at least had the chance to fuck with him today, maybe I’d feel better. He was too busy acting like the best skipper to have ever skippered, steering the boat and pointing out every natural formation and species of freaking birds. Did he watch aNational Geographicmarathon before we left? No one cares about that shit. Sure, people put it on brochures to boast whatever they can about their properties, but how many tourists come to the Bahamas to fucking bird-watch?
All right…Dario looked interested, if I’m being honest. But he’s a wildlife guy, so he’s the exception. He even hopped out of his seat and stood next to Lucas, watching him point out a group of sandpipers or coots or whatever the fuck it was they were looking at. I don’t know. I wasn’t listening. All I do know is that it was really odd how Lucas seemed to have no problem being shirtless and shoulder to shoulder with his male idol, and yet, holding my hand is somehow repulsive. Maybe he’s not as opposed to male attraction as he lets on and reserves his distaste only for me.
Huh…
I promised myself I was done thinking about it, but now I’m curious to know just how long he let me sleep stroke him this morning before he decided to say something. He did act kind ofstrange after that not-a-kiss yesterday. I fully expected him to throat punch me, but he just stood there, gaping, almost like he was drugged.
“What the ever-loving hell…”
As I round a grove of small palms where the cay descends to the shoreline, my feet stop so abruptly that the rest of my body lurches forward. I’ve found Lucas’s swimming hole. The problem is that I’ve found much more than that.
Damn…my eyes.Thatis one big bubble butt.
Once Lucas kicks his cargo shorts and flip-flops off, he straightens to his full height. I now have a clear and unwanted image of the shape of his entire body from head to toe.
Turning around like he senses my presence, his brows quirk together over his sunglasses. “What?” he huffs indignantly.
“What the fuck are you wearing?”
His lower lip bulges as he glances down at himself. Holding his hands out to his sides, his actual response is, “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
Am I suffering from sunstroke? How is he oblivious to the many levels of wrong he represents right now?
My brain says,‘Mommy, make the bad man go away,’but my eyes don’t listen, taking in the sight before me one more time. He’s wearing a twin to his tighty-blackies, but in bright blue. A much smaller, much tighter, much morespandex-yversion of his tighty-blackies. How is he still looking at me like his question merits an explanation?
“You canseeyour tuft.”
Frowning, he glances down again, as though he doesn’t see what the rest of the world would see. Leveling his gaze back at me, his nostrils flare, and his fingers form fists at his sides. “I don’t have…tuft.”
I’m fucking staring right at it. Literally, staring right at the floofy groin hair that’s framing his bright-blue-clad junk andblends into thinner hairs that cover his thighs all the way down his legs. And…he’s still staring at me, looking completely clueless. Unbelievable. Does he just enjoy arguing?
Fuck this. I’m hot. It’s not my fault he doesn’t know how to manscape or dress himself when there’s clients around.
Kicking off my flip-flops, I toss my shirt on a rock next to the path to the water and then gesture to the source of his delusion. “Are you kidding me? It’s like you’ve got a full-grown Chia Pet suffocating in there and it’s popping out to breathe.”
He appears to process that as I start down the path. His face goes red, and his hands move to cover the Chia Pet. “Quit looking at my dick.”
I can’t with him anymore. Spinning on my heel when I’m in line with him, I march over until we’re practically nose to nose.
“How can I look at your dick when I don’t have a machete to hack through the tuft jungle in front of it?”
Voices float over the slope that rises to the resort. Lucas’s gaze flicks in that direction, and he takes a step away from me, mumbling, “Knock it off. They’re coming.”
Someone please tell me why he’s dropping his handsnow?What a slut!
It’s okay for the guys to see his Chia Pet, but not me, his own fake boyfriend? That’s some bullshit.
Taking a step closer, I rest my arm across the back of his shoulders. I haven’t touched him all day. I’d better not have to have a repeat conversation with him about who he fake-belongs to. “What’s the matter, snookums? Afraid the guys will notice you’re having an intimate moment with your man?”
