Page 61 of Seven Days in June

“It’s true!” he insisted. “And I was good. I ripped my stomach open on coral, though. Probably should’ve gotten stitches, but I had to act cool in front of this little dude, who was fearless. He was surfing before he could talk. Missing a pinky finger. Tatted up. A fucking pirate. Anyway, I duct-taped it together and it healed crazy.”

“There wasn’t any Neosporin in this town? Let me see the scar.”

It was almost pitch black, but Eva could feel Shane’s smirk.

“You’re asking me to take off my shirt?”

“God, no.” She bit her lip. “Just pull it up.”

“You asking or telling?”

“Telling.”

He looked at her for a moment with an air-crackling gaze, then reached behind his back and pulled his shirt off completely. In the dark, she made out a puffy, jagged scar snaking across his stomach. More vividly, she saw his strong arms and chest. And his lightly muscled abs, and all that smooth deep-sienna skin stretching down, down, to the barest happy trail disappearing into his jeans. Jesus.

Eva wanted to suck the skin there so badly. Just above his jeans.

“Why are you such a thirst trap?”

“You forced me to do this!” Shane whispered into the dark, pulling his shirt back over his head. “Go to sleep.”

“Can’t sleep,” she murmured. “I’m distracted.”

“Why?” He turned his head to face her. And then their eyes locked in silent conversation. It was all so dreamlike. Minutes were melting into each other. Their blinks became slower, the two of them wearing syrupy, satisfied smiles.

Finally, Eva delivered an answer that neither of them believed. “I’m trying to memorize this room. It’s good material; maybe it’ll show up in a book,” she said, yawning faux drowsily. “Honestly, as stressful as writing is, I can’t imagine not doing it.”

“It’s heady, right?” he muttered, eyes focused on her mouth.

“Yeah, the power’s so good. Making complete strangers laugh, cry, get turned on. It’s better than sex.”

“Is it, though?”

“I wouldn’t remember, actually,” she admitted. “I’m at the sexual equivalent of rock bottom. It’s been ages.”

“You? But you’re such a filthy writer.”

“I have a filthy imagination,” she corrected.

And sometimes it’s enough, she thought.Mostly, it’s lonely.

Cece had once diagnosed Eva as touch-starved. (One of her authors wrote a self-help book about it.) When someone went too long without touch, they became hypersensitive to the slightest graze. There was truth to it. Last weekend, Eva had almost had an orgasm when her hairstylist shampooed her. And her hairstylist was a grandmother of six.

Eva had been consciously avoiding Shane’s touch all day. If he so much as brushed up against her, she might explode.

“I’m at rock bottom, too,” said Shane. “I’ve never had sober sex.”

Eva gasped. “That long? Why?”

Shane didn’t know how to answer this. He’d had a lot of sex, with too many women, in increasingly depraved ways, a lot of it good, most of it a blur—and it was a relief to stop. Normal, healthy people didn’t use sex as a post-vodka chaser.

“Never got around to it,” he said.

“I don’t miss it,” Eva said, with a dismissive flick of her wrist. “Honestly, I’m practically a virgin again. It’d probably hurt.”

“I’m so backed up, it’d be over in two seconds.”

“Good thing we’re not having sex.”

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