Page 22 of Totally Wrecked
Except pretend to be my sister for a few weeks.
My sister is incredibly forceful.
And I owe her.
A breeze washes over my body, the sun is beating down, but I'm in the shade and the moving air stops me from boiling. In fact, if I don’t actually think about what is ahead, this is pretty pleasant.
I chill for twenty minutes, then Leander is back, with another guy in his wake.
“Action Jackson! Meet Gray—I know he’s a giant hunk of man-meat, but keep in mind I’m your number one fan,” Leander says, with a loopy grin. “Don’t be distracted by his muscles!”
Where Leander is lithe and narrow-hipped, Gray is solid through-and-through, like he’s carved out of a block of granite. And with the mess of yellow-blonde hair, eyes the color of bourbon, and a blond scruff, it’s almost as if Old Yeller has become human. (I’d been reading that to the kids last month, before the library folded).
I smile at Gray, he gives a small lift of the mouth in return.
Leander is chewing bubble gum like a maniac. He blows a bubble, which pops, and then he winks at Gray “Told you she was fucking hot.” As he says this, Rex comes around the corner.
“Leander,” he growls, “can you please stop hitting on the cargo?”
Oh, right, I’m the cargo.
“And I need you to look at the depth finder, it’s acting weird.” Rex moves on, giving me a backwards glance. “Excuse us, Ms. Jackson…”
“I am for real!” Leander sings as pushes himself to his feet.
I have heard that one before, but it still makes me grin.
“Don’t go anywhere,” Leander adds. “I want to know about the sky-diving.”
Gray, looking slightly bemused, watches Leander leave. Turning back to me he asks, “You want water? Or a coffee?”
Coffee? Praise Hendrix!
The tween group at the library says ‘Praise Hendrix’ all the time. Apparently it has nothing to do with Jimmy Hendrix. It’s very hard to keep up with ‘the kids’ lingo, but I try anyway.
“Coffee please, though I’m sure my body would prefer water.”
“I’ll bring you both.”
“Poggers.”
Gray raises an eyebrow. Yeah, maybe that phrase can remain in the tween group.
After a few minutes he returns with a bottle and mug, and he carefully places one, then the other, on top of the life jacket locker. I can’t help but notice his forearms have the dark tan and defined veins of someone who works hard physical labor outdoors. Taking the bottle first, I chug half of it then reach for the coffee. Gray leans forward and wipes the beads of water off my top lip with his thumb.
He straightens back, looking confused, then says, “Your face is too hot. You need to apply sunscreen.”
“I know, but I’m so jet-lagged my brain can’t function. I don’t know where I packed it.”
Gray frowns, goes into the cabin and returns with an orange and white tube.
“Close your eyes.”
I do as I’m told, and Gray gently smooths lotion all over my face—my cheeks, nose, eyelids, then very gently around my ears.
“Chin up.” With slow strokes, he massages the sunscreen into my neck and down to my exposed clavicle. It’s hypnotic and calming. For the first time in days, I actually feel relaxed.
“Done.” Reluctantly opening my eyes, I watch Gray undo a pocket in my shorts and tuck the small tube inside. “Reapply in a couple of hours,” he says, then wipes the remaining residue over his own face, his fingers slowing as they trace his lips.
