Page 12 of Hate At First Sight

I stand up out of my hammock--with some embarrassing difficulty, put my hands on my hips and peer at him.

My mouth falls open, viewing this freaking specimen of a man from my new vantage point on my feet.

His muscles are big, rippling, and my eyes accidentally wander in between his legs.

Okay. So maybe there’s a reason he’s got such a big…ego.

Yes, ego.

That’s what I’m thinking about right now.

“Hi,” he smirks, then lets his sunglasses down, just revealing his eyes. “I know you can’t see them through the sunglasses, but my eyes are up here. If you want a show, that’s gonna cost you extra.”

My face turns beet red. Damn. Caught staring…

That hasn’t happened to me in ages.

Then again, I haven’t been single in ages.

“I’m…not falling for this,” I say, trying to divert the subject. “Not with what just happened.”

“Me neither. I just caught you staring right at my cock through my board shorts. Looks like the tables have turned.”

“Nothing much to stare at, anyway…”

He laughs. “Want to touch it and check exactly how much nothing there is?”

My body stiffens and I search for any comeback.

“Yeah? Well I bet you’re looking at my cleavage. You’re creeping on me.”

“I am, now that you mention it. They look natural, too, which is becoming rarer and rarer these days. You should be proud.”

I’m now totally red-faced. I’m not used to a man being so direct. “So what were you laughing at--before?”

“Ah, subject change then, is it? Fine, I’ll bite. I’m just laughing at the state of the world these days. A smokeshow like yourself will travel all the way down to Costa Rica, only to swipe on a dating app so you can be set up with Brad - twenty-six - surfer boy.”

Something coils in my chest. I decide not to acknowledge the fact that he just called me a smokeshow.

Though I admit, it feels good considering how sexless the last few months with Jansen were. “What’s wrong with that? That’s freedom,” I argue.

“Sure. But when a man tries to talk to you in real life it’s now ‘creepy and offensive.’ We’ve lost the art of real life serendipity. And personally, I think that’s a shame. Approaching people for conversation in the real world is becoming a lost art.”

I furrow my brow. “I mean, you’re not wrong,” I admit.

“You said I was, ‘creeping on you.’ Originally I just wanted to make sure you were having a good stay--which I do from time to time with my guests. But you intrigued me and I admit it--I read your phone over your shoulder. It was half-accidental, but I’m owning the non-accidental half. I creeped on you. In real life. Like a man. Not like one of these app boys who probably can’t even look you in the eye in person, and judging by the way he had to ask you to name a time and a place, couldn’t handle a real woman.”

I look down at my phone, feeling my blood boiling.

Damn him.

Damn him for being…right.

“Brad could be cool,” I say defensively, although I don’t even know why.

“So you like younger men?” he asks.

“Ah, I…how do you even know my age?”

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