Page 44 of The Plus Ones

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I fasten the clasp on her back, make sure everything’s in place, and wipe my hands on her towel. “You’re welcome.”

I need to get out of here before I start singing “Your Body is a Wonderland” and weeping.

I stand up and remove my shirt, stretch my arms up in the air. I don’t hear anyone applauding, but I just need a good hour or two of sun, and then I’ll be golden. Literally. “Think I’ll go for a walk on the beach.”

“Are you wearing sunscreen?” Because of the sunglasses, I can’t see the hearts in her eyes as she checks out my naked torso, but I’m confident that they’re there.

“No. I’ll be fine.”

“Absolutely not, young man. Get back down here.” She grabs the bottle of sunscreen, bends her knees, and signals for me to take a seat in front of her, but no.

Nope.

Just. No.

I’m getting out of here while I still have the upper hand.

I would rather risk a sunburn than risk trying to kiss her and blurting out “I love you” while she caresses my shoulders.

“I’m good,” I say. “Thanks, though.”

I walk away, down to the beach, leaving her wanting more, leaving myself with a little dignity and a semi that is nobody’s business but my own.

10

Roxy

Idiot.

He’s a fairly adorable idiot, but an idiot, nonetheless.

I told him he needed sunscreen, but he didn’t listen, and now my fake boyfriend is moping at the cottage with bright-pink shoulders.

I’m standing at the bar of the restaurant with Aimee. The four of them are going to have lunch here, but I’m ordering takeout for two. For myself and my idiot fake boyfriend. He’s got good hands and he knows how to use them, but his brain is just not working today. That may be my fault, and I might feel a tiny bit guilty about it.

“We’re going to check out the live band and go dancing after dinner tonight,” Aimee says. “Before Game Night. You’re coming to that, right?”

I wrinkle my nose. “Game Night, sure, but probably not the dancing.”

Aimee gives me a knowing look. “It’s notthatkind of dancing.”

“That’s not why I don’t want to go.” I’m not a good dancer, okay? You’d think I would be, because you know—good on the dance floor equals good in bed, right? And I’m good in bed. But for some reason I’ve never progressed beyond that Junior High-Molly Ringwald-in-The Breakfast Clubkind of dance move. Aimee saw it in college, and I’ve managed to avoid all potential dance-related situations since then. And I will be avoiding this situation because I do not need to be sharing a bedanddirty dancing with Keaton Bridges.

“Okay,” she says, even though she totally thinks I’m just embarrassed about how I dance, but that is not it. “But you’ll definitely come to Game Night? It should be fun.”

“What is it, Charades or something?”

“I’m not sure exactly. Couples games? Teams?”

“Greeeaaaat.”

“You guys really do look cute together,” she says.

I scoff at that. “Sure we do.”

“You do. For what it’s worth.” She shrugs.

I bite my lower lip and then say, “He ran into Tamara’s brother at the airport yesterday.”