Page 17 of Stick Break
I narrow my eyes at him. “Kiss me,” I shoot back with a snort, trying to play this cool. “Dude, that was mouth-to-mouth.” A beat and then, “Wasn’t it?”
His eyes glaze over for a second. “It was a lot of mouth.” He doesn’t sound mad about it.
Yeah, me neither.
I sit up too fast, and we both nearly headbutt each other. We moan, then laugh, awkward. Breathless.
“I’m okay and you’re okay,” I mumble, brushing sand off my chest like that’ll somehow erase this moment. “Let’s get back to fishing. I’m itching for a new pair of cargo shorts.”
But his eyes are still on me, trailing down my face, low and slow. But then his search stops, right where my soaked shirt clings tightest. Right where my cold, very awake nipples are making an undeniable appearance.
“But…” he pauses and scrubs his face like he’s in total agony.
Join the club, buddy.
“But what?” I ask, when he can’t seem to finish the sentence.
He swallows. “You’re all wet.”
Wet.
Yes, yes I am and God help me…
5
Rip
I try to keep my focus on the fishing line. Really, I do. But the woman next to me is soaked, her T-shirt clinging in ways that should probably be illegal, and her hard nipples are doing absolutely nothing to help my concentration.
A warm breeze drifts over us as she shifts her stance, brushing damp strands of hair from her face.
“If you want to run back and change,” I offer, keeping my tone casual, “I wouldn’t blame you.”
She waves me off. “Nah, I’ll dry soon enough.” Then she wipes her brow and shoots me a smile. Open, grateful, genuine. It knocks me off-kilter more than her wet T-shirt ever could. That’s probably not a good thing. She lowers herself onto the rocks beside me, shoulders sinking like the last of the tension is finally melting out of her. “Actually, Rip... this is the most relaxed I’ve felt in a long time.” She lifts her face to the sun. My God, she’s pretty. Like really pretty.
I drop down next to her with a quiet grunt, stretching out my legs. My groin is already protesting. The stretching this morning was helpful, but apparently, standing on rocks for an hour isn’t part of my healing regimen.
“I’m glad,” I say, because it’s true. She’s been through a lot lately, and if I can help out a bit, help her forget real life, even for a week, then I’m happy to do it.
The Atlantic stretches out in front of us, sunlight bouncing off the waves in sharp glints. She watches the ocean like she’s memorizing it. What is going through her mind?
“I had no idea fishing could be like this,” she murmurs, enlightening me to her thoughts. She gives me a grin. “Maybe I’ll take it up when I leave.”
A knot tightens in my chest at the word leave, but I shove it down.
“There’s lots of good fishing in California,” I say, trying for casual. “You can charter a boat, do some deep sea stuff.” She grunts at my suggestion. “You don’t like the idea of that?”
Her nose crinkle as she puckers. “I kind of like being on the rocks.” She pats the smooth surface beneath us.
“You don’t like boats?”
“I actually fell off one once. When I was young. It was an accident, but…” Her voice trails off.
When she doesn’t continue, I lean forward. “Jesus, I’m sorry, Charley. That must’ve been horrifying.”
“It was.” She pauses, then adds, “My parents were super mad.”
That makes me blink. “Wait… You had an accident and your parents were mad?”
