Claire: Ha. Not likely. I’ve only ever seen this guy at the pool with Mandi, so unless he’s here as a lifeguard, it’s sketchy as hell.
Holland: Ew.
Claire:Right? Gotta go. I see Pete up ahead, so that must be my class. Ughhhhhhhh.
Slipping my phone into my bag, I tell myself that it will be fine. Over the past few years, I have perfected the art of ignoring Bainbridge’s favorite son. If it’s a little harder now that I know exactly what his hands feel like when theyroam over my body, well, that’s something I’ll just keep to myself.
Besides, like I told Holland, regardless of my reaction to it, his touch wasn’t sexual. It wasn’t even sensual or intimate. It was…clinical. And ok, no one else’s touch has ever elicited a moan like that from me, not even guys who were balls deep in me had ever drawn out such a visceral, bone-deep response.
And Pete was just applying lotion to my sore, sunburned back.
Holy. Freaking. Hell.
So, the prudent thing to do is to avoid him. But considering the fact that he’s become my damn shadow, my only recourse might be to join a nunnery. They’ll kick me out in ten minutes. I guarantee it.
That means I’ve got to tough it out, just like I did yesterday, even though that was a fucking disaster. Between the itchy remnants of sunburn on my back and shoulders, and the unquenchable…need between my legs every time the man uttered a word, I was deeply uncomfortable.
Since avoiding Pete is a luxury that’s presently out of my budget, I decide it can’t hurt too much to stare at his ass while he’s bending down and hauling things out of a trailer. Everything about the man is thick. His thighs are like tree trunks, and unlike a lot of big guys, he doesn’t suffer from Flat Ass Syndrome. His backside is a testament to the beauty of the squat, long may it be part of his workout regimen. When he hefts a large plastic bin onto the trailer, I get a very nice glimpse of the gains he’s gotten from years of chasing a little rubber disc around the ice.
Wait—why is he putting the bins back on the trailer?
“Hey,” I say, walking toward him. “Aren’t we all meeting here? I thought this was the site Dr. Navarro picked out?”
Pete blinks when he sees me, as though he’s surprised that I’m here. Quickly, I glance at my watch. It’s 12:48. I’m not that early. Class begins in twelve minutes. So sue me.
“Class was canceled,” he says, lifting another tub instead of looking at me, and oh, my god, that pisses me off.
“Really? When? Why?” I ask, inching closer, just to force him to face me. I’m not sure why it’s suddenly become my life’s mission to have Pete acknowledge my presence, but it has and I’m going with it.
“Dr. Navarro sent an alert about an hour ago. And I reposted it. There’s a storm barreling in and when you see the green dot on your map, well, that’s us. Check your updates.” His tone isn’t curt, exactly, but gone is the friendly guy who used to annoy the shit out of me. Let me be clear: he still annoys the shit out of me. He’s just not overly friendly anymore.
I root through my bag with my left hand, since said bag is hanging off my right shoulder. But my phone has inevitably made its home at the very bottom of my cavernous tote bag, so it’s out of reach. But I am undeterred. Plopping my bag down onto the bed of the trailer, I riffle through it, then hold my phone up in triumph.
Pete is not amused.
“This bin goes there,” he says gruffly, gesturing toward the spot where I’ve laid my bag.
“It goes where?” I ask, because if he can be stand-offish, I can be obtuse. Pissing Pete Off is my favorite sport.
“Where your bag is,” he answers.
“Oh, sorry,” I say, my tone betraying my complete lack of contrition. To drive the point home, I move my tote about two inches.
“Jesus,” he mutters, tightening his grip on the plastic container, an act which has his biceps bulging and hisforearms flexing. He steps around me, then drops the bin into the bed of the trailer, causing it to shake from the impact.
“Holy crap, what did you have in there?” I ask. “A dozen fifty pound weights?”
“Dirt,” he says. “About two hundred pounds of it. Same as this one,” he says, picking up another tub. “So, if you would be so kind as to move your purse, that would be great.”
I pick up my bag and take a step back, because I’m not a total asshole, not even to the man who drives me crazy.
“Do you need some help?” I ask.
He scoffs before I’ve even finished the question, and that irks the hell out of me. I can’t hold back the words that are bubbling up inside of me. “Fuckyouverymuch, I’m fully capable of helping. I’m not some delicate damn flower who can’t lift heavy things,” I say, brushing past him toward the pile of supplies he’s clearly gathering up. “In case you hadn’t noticed,” I continue, facing him, “I’m taller than half the guys on this trip. And probably stronger, too.”
“I’m well aware,” he says, his words clipped as he reaches for the last bin at the same time I lay my hands on it. “Let go, Claire.”
“Not a fucking chance, Pete,” I reply.
