Page 60 of Just Friends

Alex arches a brow at me. “I didn’t realize it was, but please enlighten me.”

“Well, I was thinking we could ask our dates to put sunscreen on our backs. That’s hot, right?”

A surprised laugh barks out of him. “No, that’s not hot.”

“It absolutely is hot,” I retort, indignation rising.

“Rubbing sticky, smelly sunscreen all over someone’s hairy back is sexy?” Alex props his elbow on his open window, turning his body to face me, the sun glinting in the faded golds in his dark hair.

“Yourback isn’t hairy.”

It most definitely is not. It’s all gleaming skin stretched over taut muscles. Like velvet covering marble.

His deep brown eyes roll, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. “No, but yours is.” My mouth falls open, and his laugh fills the car. He holds up his hands in surrender. “Kidding, kidding.”

“For that, you’re doing my back,” I say, pushing my door open and climbing out.

He meets me at the back, lifting the trunk, his cheeks still tinged with a happy pink, like strawberry frosting on a chilled cake.

Reaching for my bag, I pull out a bottle of sunscreen. “And for the record, my sunscreen smells like a tropical paradise.” I shove the bottle in his hand, and he cracks the lid, sniffing.

“It really transports you,” he says. “I can practically feel the sand in my ass.”

Pressing my lips together to stifle my laugh, I spin around and shrug out of my top. The sun beats down on my exposed skin, warming it. Despite the heat, it pebbles when I feel Alex’s breath on the nape of my neck.

I expect the sunscreen to be cold, but it’s warm from Alex rubbing his hands together. It’s like slick massage oil as he spreads it first across my shoulders and then down my back. With each pass of his hands, each brush of his fingers, my stomach tightens, heat spreading through me. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. All the confusing feelings of the past few weeks feel concentrated behind my navel, fire licking up my spine and down my legs.

“Not so bad,” Alex murmurs, and I think his voice might be rough. It only makes me more aware of every spot he’s touching.

“It’s the coconut,” I choke out.

He’s quiet for a long moment, his hands moving in slower and slower circles over my back, spanning over the flare of my hips. Finally, he breathes, “No, I don’t think that’s it.”

I glance at him over my shoulder, catching his gaze. It’s molten, consuming.

“Hey, guys!” a familiar deep voice calls from across the parking lot. Parker.

“Thanks,” I mutter to Alex, pulling my shirt up from the crook of my elbows and back onto my shoulders.

He doesn’t say anything, wiping his hands roughly on one of the beach towels I packed. Parker jogs up next to us, a wide smile stretched across his face. I force one of my own to match his.

“Hey, Parker. How have you been?” We’ve texted some this week, especially after my decision Monday to buckle down in my pursuit of him. Our conversations have been ongoing since then, but I couldn’t bring myself to respond as quickly as he did. I’d get a text from him while working at the coffee shop in the morning and not respond until I got home in the evenings, only to have my phone ding with his reply a moment later. I need to try harder.

His arm wraps around my shoulders in a quick side hug. “I’ve been great. Finished painting my classroom. How’s the work project going?”

I can’t help the way my eyes flick to Alex, who is now applying his own sunscreen to his bare arms with quick motions, leaving streaks of white in some spots and bare, exposed flesh in others. His pale skin is sure to fry in this harsh sun, and it takes everything inside me not to snatch the bottle from his hands and apply it myself. But I’m still off-kilter from the feeling of his hands on me, and that would only exacerbate it. Maybe Marie will help.

I don’t know why that makes my stomach twist.

“Hazel?” Parker asks, snapping my attention back to him.

I shake my head, clearing it, and try to remember his question. “Taking everything out of me. Something about the design is justnotworking.”

“Maybe I can take a look at it,” he says, and his face is so earnest that guilt hangs heavy in my gut.

Parker doesn’t seem to notice that my smile takes effort, and I’m glad for it. “That would be great,” I say. “Maybe this week?”

“I’d love to. What about Tue—”

---