Page 95 of If All Else Sails
My eyes flutter closed. Yeah...the way I feel about his touch is anything but professional.
His hands are big and lightly calloused, but they’re gentleas they glide over my skin. He smooths the lotion on my neck, then my shoulders, his fingertips just barely slipping underneath the neck of my tank top and the holes of my sleeves.
“I’ve got to be thorough,” he murmurs, and now he’s leaning down, his breath a whisper on my skin. “Can’t have you getting burned.”
“Do you, um, need me to get your neck or anything?”
“Sure,” he says, and he says it so easily, like he’s unaffected by this.
I guesshisinsides aren’t trembling like he’s standing on a fault line.
When Wyatt finishes, rubbing the last of the sunscreen down the length of my arms, I have him sit on one of the benches so I can stand next to him.
“Too tall,” I tell him. “Or I’m too short.”
“You’re just right,” he says with a small smile.
And then he tugs his shirt right over his head.
Well, then.
I know what I’ll be writing about in my journal tonight. And maybe dreaming about for nights to come.
Look—I’m not the kind of woman who’s ever been into thirst traps. Especially not after hearing a fifth-grade girl casually drop the term. Why a fifth grader knows aboutthirst traps, I don’t know. But I’m guessing it has something to do with her newly divorced mom.
My point being: I’m not someone who considers herself superficial about guys and their looks. I’ve never had a type and have always placed physical attractiveness somewhere down the list of things that matter to me, way after character traits. In fact, big, muscular guys have long been on myabsolutely notlist.
But maybe I’m shallower than I thought, my absolutes nowmore relative. Because I can’t stop myself from taking a good long look.
It’s impossible to view Wyatt’s bare torso with anything but admiration. And a little disbelief, because I really thought maybe the shirtless abs I’d seen in his ads were airbrushed. Like maybe his abs were actually drawn by AI.
Nope. I can now confirm every one of those abs exists in reality.
And they’re right here, inches away.
I saw them during physical therapy, but that was mostly while Wyatt was at a safe distance, in a pool.
He clears his throat, startling me into putting way too much sunscreen on my hand, and I swear I catch the edge of a cocky smile as he gives me his back. Which, of course, is as astonishingly muscular. I didn’t know backs came like this.
Wyatt has to clear his throat again before I set the sunscreen down and rub my palms together until they’re both coated, reminding myself that I have a job to do. A medical job. Totally professional and not involving any feelings or anything personal.
He stiffens as my palms touch his shoulders. “Cold,” he says.
“Don’t be a baby,” I tell him.
He grunts at this, or maybe it’s more of a groan as my hands slide over his back and shoulders. His muscles feel even better than they look, and I am struggling to locate my nurse hat. The metaphorical one I pull out when I’m engaging in professional tasks.
It’s just a back, I tell myself.Skin, muscle, bone. Nothing to see here, folks! Just a perfect specimen of a man!
“I think I’m good,” Wyatt says, startling me as I realize the massive amount of sunscreen I used is almost totally rubbed in.
How long have I been touching him?
I give his shoulders a pat with a little too much force. Wyatt flinches.
“Skin cancer sucks. SPF matters,” I say, like I’ve been suddenly turned into a commercial touting the benefits of sunscreen.
“Yes,” Wyatt agrees, “it does. Thank you.”
