Page 4 of Groomsman to Groom
“Their loss,” Hayes says simply. “Talent isn’t threatening; it’s inspiring.”
I study him, trying to figure out if he’s feeding me a line, but his expression is open, genuine. “What about you? Anyone since...”
“Since Sarah died?” He completes my hesitation. “No. It’s been almost two and a half years, but between grief, raising August, and trying to build my career...” He trails off. “Dating hasn’t exactly been a priority.”
“I understand,” I say quietly. “It’s only been two months since my mom passed. Time feels... strange. Sometimes it’s like it happened yesterday, other times it feels like years ago.”
Hayes nods, his eyes reflecting understanding. “The worst is when you forget for a moment. When something good happens and you reach for your phone to call them, and then—”
“—and then you remember all over again,” I finish. “Yeah. I hope that part gets easier.”
“It does… a little. For me, it’s when I’m in the grocery store. I’ll see her favorite cereal or the yogurt she used to buy for August, and it hits me all over again.”
“For me, it’s movie trailers. Mom and I used to text each other about every new one that came out, debating whether the movie would be worth seeing.”
We’ve stopped walking, standing face to face as the waves lap gently at our feet. The moon is now lighting the sky, and he’s so handsome with his face illuminated, the sharp angles of his jaw and the reflections in his blue eyes.
“I know exactly what you mean,” he says, and I know he does.
I’m not sure who moves first. Maybe we both do, drawn together by some invisible force—that “zing” Skye was talking about. His lips find mine, tentative at first, then with growing confidence as I respond. His hands cup my face, as if I’m something precious, and mine find their way to his hard chest, feeling his heartbeat race beneath my palm.
I move my hands upward, threading my fingers into his hair. And that does it. His kiss deepens, becoming desperate, and we stumble backward until the jutting rocks swallow us in the shadows. Hayes murmurs, “No one will see us here,” and we continue, huddled in our private cove, the moonlight glinting off tide pools, every nerve igniting.
There’s this unexplainable magnetic pull, and somehow, we’re so intertwined, it’s impossible to tell where he ends and I begin. His fingers trail a scorching path down my spine to my waist, then dip even lower. My breath hitches in his mouth—raw, needy, as though I’ve been starving for this moment my whole life. My pulse hammers in my ears.
“Is this okay?” he rasps against my neck, his words vibrating against my skin.
“More than okay,” I gasp, peeling the flimsy cover-up from my shoulders and letting it fall to the sand. The taste of salt from his lips mixes with the night air, and I’m dizzy with want.
Are we really doing this?
My bikini top slips free under his greedy fingers. He steps back for a breath and simply stares, eyes dark with hunger. Every inch of me feels worshipped under his gaze.
“So beautiful,” he whispers, eyes black with need. Then his lips crash into mine again, voracious and relentless. Our tongues grapple, bodies slick with sweat as wavelets crash, echoing the frantic drum of my heart.
This isdefinitelya new kind of beach experience.
I glide my hand down to his swim trunks, pulling the tied string loose; they tumble useless to the sand. I drink him in—every ridge and curve—and hell yeah, we’re doing this.
We’re almost skin on skin, his hardness pressing against my swimsuit bottom, just under my belly button. With a growl, he hoists me up; my legs clamp around his hips, and I tuck my fingers into his tousled hair. His mouth trails down my neck, across my collarbone, teasing every nerve when a flash of light suddenly illuminates us.
“Daddy, I just took a picture of sea turtles!” a child’s voice exclaims, followed immediately by more light that doesn’t go away. “Why aren’t those people wearing clothes?”
I freeze, mortified, as Hayes scrambles to position himself in front of me. I put my hands over my chest, squinting into the beam of a flashlight.
A father and son stand there—dad with bulging eyes and the child clutching a plastic bucket and small flashlights.
“Sorry, sorry!” the father says, grabbing his curious son by the shoulder. “Come on, Billy, let’s go look for turtles over there instead.”
“But those people—”
“Were just swimming,” the dad says, herding his son away.
As they retreat, Hayes and I look at each other in stunned silence for a beat before bursting into laughter.
“Oh my God,” I gasp, struggling to find my bikini top with shaking hands. “That kid’s going to need therapy.”
“A birds and the bees discussion on the trip home?” Hayes says, pulling his swim trunks on.
