Page 104 of Champagne Fizz

“You’re beautiful,” I defend. “It’s hard to not look at you. Especially in that bikini.”

“Ha!” She laughs. “Like I’m a Greek statue half-naked and carved in stone?”

“You’re living and breathing and a whole lot sexier to touch,” I say, snagging one of her curls and toying with it. “But yes, your body is worthy of art.”

“That’s your hormones talking,” Kendall replies, even though a flush of pink peppers her flesh. “That’s not your brain talking.”

“I’m sure hundreds of pieces of art were inspired by desires that couldn’t be met,” I tease. “I can imagine spending hours carving the perfect rounds of flesh from a slab of marble in order to channel unfulfilled energy into something productive.”

“Rounds of flesh?” Kendall gives me a sassy side-eye.

“Melons of marble?” I offer. “Bountiful bosoms?”

“It sounds like I should’ve spent the last decade making art with all of my sexual frustration.”

I laugh. “Preferably nude self-portraits.”

“You’re such a dude,” she scoffs.

“The nerdy glasses are deceiving,” I admit. “They give the illusion of sophistication.”

“Illusion being the keyword.”

“Still”—I twirl her hair around my finger—“even when I’m not wearing my glasses, you’re so damn gorgeous it hurts to keep my hands to myself.”

“Maybe I’ll have Olivia paint me, that way you can have something to immortalize this pain for you,” she jokes.

“Olivia paints abstracts,” I point out.

“Yes,” Kendall nods. “She can capture the beauty and desire and hormones without creating something pornographic.”

“Are you calling Greek statues porn?”

“Have you seen some of them?” Kendall looks at me wide-eyed. “When I was seventeen, I was in the antiquities wing of the MET. I turned a corner and came face-to-face with a larger-than-life, rippling with muscles, naked sculpture of Zeus! And I meannaked.There wasn’t a toga, or a fig leaf, or any artfully draped fabrics. This was an anatomically correct statue. And Zeus wasn’t in his normal I’m-the-god-of-lightning power pose. Oh no, he was lounging with his back arched and his legs open like he was ready for the masses of mortal women to crawl up his torso and ride him like Pegasus!”

Kendall’s collarbone flushes with the memory and I want to kiss every pink spot.

“I almost came in the middle of the gallery,” she admits.

“Is that so?” I tug on her hair gently, wanting to reel her in closer. “Was this your first time seeing a naked man? Even if it was made of stone.”

Kendall flushes like she’s sunburnt, and I know it must’ve been. I imagine she avoided real-life encounters. But I’m surprised she never looked anything up online. And for her first naked man to be a King-of-Olympus-lust-posed Zeus—damn!—even I understand the potency of that image: virile, stone-hard, God. That must’ve fed Kendall’s early fantasies for years.

“So, you’re telling me I need to find a photo of this sculpture and set up a personal reenactment?” I tease.

Kendall’s eyes dance down my body as she imagines it, and I better figure out what piece of art she saw, stat!

“Wewillhave to work on me feeling more comfortable seeing you naked,” Kendall says softly, and all my blood rushes south.

Ok, new topic. I’m not going to be able to sit next to her without wondering if she’s mentally undressing me. That’s definitely going to be a problem at the wedding. Ned and Olivia are going to be saying “I do,” but I’ll be wondering if Weddings with Hart will sneak out of the ceremony for some pre-banquet “O’s” to work off pent-up stress.

And God, if Arie found us …

I drop the lock of Kendall’s hair and roll onto my back, pushing away the image of Arie juggling knives and aiming crème brûlée torches in my direction. I dig my hands into my towel to keep them away from Kendall’s skin. It’s hard not being able to tease her, tempt her: run my finger over her waist.

“Okay, tell me this,” I announce, changing the subject. “What would you do with your life if you couldn’t be a wedding planner?”

“I’d be unemployed,” she quips, smiling as she amuses herself.

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