Page 62 of Champagne Fizz

“Maybe,” I concede, nibbling on my lip. But I’ve played this scenario out in my head a thousand times. It sounds good in theory, but the premise lies in believing guys won’t be guys. “That sounds like a good option, until I become the punch line,” I says softly. “Or a frat party joke, or a mean experiment. Guys talk. Sure, not all of them, but …”

“No, they do,” Simon admits, nodding. “They shouldn’t. A lot of them just don’t know when to shut up.”

“It’s not just guys,” I say. “Sometimes they’re a sassy redhead who introduces herself by announcing you’re not having a threesome with her and her boyfriend.” Arie was more than happy to tell a complete stranger the intimate details of her sexual escapades, and she’s not the only woman I’ve known who does it.

“Is that what you’re worried about,” Simon asks quietly. “That I’m going to tell someone? That I’ll tell Arie and she’ll turn you into a joke?”

“Arie’s already turned me into a joke without the silver arrow of knowing I’m a …”

“Shit,” Simon frowns, realizing that’s true.

“I’m worried about all of it, Simon. Not just Arie.” I look past him to the white sand that covers the shore; it’s pristine and untouched and wildly beautiful. “And don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I don’t have desires. I do. Gosh, there are things I want and I want them badly.”

Our eyes lock, my words an admission.

My tank top feels flimsy against my skin, and the sun is too hot, warming my back with its golden hands.

“Simon, I like you,” I brave. “I want to trust you.”

He lifts his drink and starts gulping. He’s nervous too. He knows where this is headed.

“And it seems like you also like me,” I continue. “So, if we both like each other … and we’re both responsible consenting adults ... it seems like it might be …”

Simon pulls off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose, before throwing back the rest of his mimosa, exactly the way I did at the beginning of this conversation. “Are you asking me what I think you’re asking?”

The breeze from earlier does nothing to stop the heat that blossoms across my chest, his question tightening my nipples and strumming excitement between my legs.

“I mean, only if you’re actually interested,” I say softly.

He replaces his glasses and looks at me, his eyes are so dark my entire body turns to jelly.

“Simon,” I say as confidently as I can. “I want you to take my—”

The waiter walks up with plates of eggs.

My throat squeezes.

“Thank you,” Simon says sharply, taking the plates and clapping them down on the table in front of us. He hands the waiter his empty champagne glass. “We’re going to need a lot more of these. In fact, you should probably just put them in bigger glasses.”

The waiter takes the flute from him and looks between us. “Good vacation?”

“And more water,” Simon says almost horse, looking back at me with all the blood drained from his face. “A whole lot more water, please.”

The waiter leaves and Simon picks at his plate, cutting up the omelet into tiny pieces like he might organize them by size and weight. He doesn’t take a single bite. I watch him silently, my insides feeling just as displaced as the bits of egg he pushes around his plate.

I asked. Sort of. And he’s just playing with his eggs.

“Of course,” I say, back tracking. “You don’t have to, if you’re not—”

“I didn’t say no,” he says quickly, his eyes flashing up with hot intensity. I bite my lip, trying to cut off the whimper that look unleashed.

Simon’s gaze flicks to my mouth, realizing his effect on me.

“Fuck,” he curses, definitely not used to the fact that he can turn me on by simply suggesting he might want to get in my shorts.

“Technically that’s the idea, yes,” I say, attempting a joke to lighten the moment, and feeling my face flush pink. Simon makes a grunting noise to acknowledge my quip, both of us nervous.

“Okay, so … when?” Simon asks.

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