Page 56 of Say Yes to the Hot Mess
The corners of his lips quirk. “Are they?”
“Definitely,” I say, nodding, still staring at his muscled torso. He’s lean, with broad shoulders, like a swimmer. Not too bulky; just right.
Dex takes one lazy step forward, then another, then another, moving through the water until he’s right smack-dab in front of me—so close that when the wind pulls at my hair, it blows silkily against his chest. I see his muscles tighten at the contact. “So you might even say,” he begins, his voice low, amused, “that I’mstupid hot?”
I swallow, forcing my eyes away from his chest—up his neck, over his chin, pausing on his lips, and then up, up, until our gazes clash. I bite my lip, and his gaze grows hooded as he follows the motion.
“Stupidhot,” I say softly. Slowly, so slowly, I reach up and touch his chest, my fingers grazing lightly over the skin. A sharp breath hisses out between his teeth, and the sound twists at my insides, heating the blood in my veins.
“Do fake girlfriends touch their fake boyfriends like this?” he says hoarsely, his darkened gaze glued to me.
I stop in my tracks. “I don’t—I don’t think so,” I say, letting my hand drop. Then I wince. “Sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I guess I haven’t spent much time around men in…well, a while,” I admit. I’m not doing a great job proving to myself that I don’t have a crush on this man, but I try not to dwell on that.
“It’s all right,” he murmurs. He gestures at the shirt still in my hand, though he doesn’t look away from me. “You should put that on.”
I slip my arms in and begin buttoning, and I’m instantly grateful for that little bit of wind barrier. I pull my hair free from the collar and look to see Dex’s eyes still on me, drinking in his shirt draped over me.
“What?” I say when I notice his attention.
“Hmm?” he says. And then, as if breaking out of a trance, he blinks and smiles a small but genuine smile. “Nothing,” he says. Then he spins on his heel and begins walking, his head down as he apparently watches the water.
I watch him move, and a few seconds later, he steps back to the shore and bends down, picking something up. Then he’s back in the water again, kicking up the tide as he walks. Every now and then he bends down and picks something up, and all the while I watch him, trying to figure out…something. What am I trying to figure out? What he’s doing? How I feel? I don’t even know.
When Dex returns to me a couple minutes later, he holds out his hand.
“What is—oh,” I finish softly. Out of his grasp spills five seashells, in a variety of shapes and sizes. “Look how pretty they are.”
“Beautiful,” he says softly. But when I look at him, his eyes aren’t on the shells; they’re on me.
I swallow. “Thank you.”
He nods. “They should be with someone who appreciates them. Now,” he goes on. “It’s really cold.”
“It is,” I admit.
“Let’s go back to the room,” he says. “Take a nap or read or watch TV or something that doesn’t involve getting wet or freezing. You in?”
“Yes,” I say gratefully, and together we make our way back.
* * *
The restof the day up til the rehearsal dinner goes quickly. I take a nap for a while, as well as pump so I don’t get engorged again. I make some progress on the website I’m designing for work, too, while Dex devotes himself to a book of crossword puzzles.
“Just think,” I say with a sigh later that afternoon, sauntering out of the bedroom to where he’s stationed on the couch. “You could have been spending all this time with Ms. Valencia Devlin.”
“Pass,” he says in a flat voice. He’s stretched out lazily, and I take a moment to watch him while he’s not looking. He showered after going down to the water, and his hair is mostly dry now. His sweatpants and thin, white shirt are completely drool-inducing, and not just because of the fantastic things they do for his body.
No, it’s a different kind of thrill to see someone like Dex—someone so buttoned up, so proper and professional—in this state of casualness. It feels like I’m being told a secret, getting to see him this way.
I shouldn’t be so interested, of course. I’m fully aware of that. I told Scarlett I didn’t have a crush on him, so I shouldn’t be noticing the way his chest gently rises and falls, or the way he gets a little crease in his forehead when he concentrates hard on something. He’s my neighbor, my sort-of friend, my fake boyfriend—but nothing more.
“What time do you think we should go down?” I say to distract myself from my somewhat troubling thoughts.
“Probably four-forty-five,” he says, setting his book of puzzles down and looking at his watch.
I nod. “I’m going to shower, then.”
Dex nods too, and I go back to the bedroom, closing the door behind me.
