Page 67 of The Trouble with Love and Ink
“Have I, Emily?” he asked, the picture of calm.
“Yes. When you said you didn’t want to act on certain desires. Or the way I could only convince you to come to bed last night was by building a freaking pillow fort between us. And I know you and Reagan . . .” I pushed wet hair out of my face. This was so humiliating. “It’s okay. Seriously. Let’s drop it.”
“No. We aren’t dropping this. When I told you I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, that wasn’t bullshit. I didn’t ask you to come to Costa Rica to seduce you. I asked you here because you seemed like you could use a break. The last thing I want is for you to leave here with regrets, to feel less like yourself around me when we go back to sharing a lane or working together.”
I thought of what he’d told me about Reagan, about how she’d told him she didn’t feel like herself when they were together. “I’m not her, Beck. I’m not Reagan.”
“I know,” he said too quickly. “But still, you were right. We shouldn’t complicate things.”
“But that’s the problem, Beck. They are already complicated. Tell me you can sit across from me in meetings and you won’t think about this trip. Our dance. That kiss. It’s too late.”
Once again, conflict danced in his eyes. Had misery ever looked that beautiful on anyone else? “So, what do we do?”
I swallowed. “We jump. And hope for the best.”
Chapter 19
When we returned to the yurts, we found the pool glittering and empty. Both pretty worn from the hike and our fun at the nature-made watering hole, we decided a restful day poolside was time well spent.
On the deck, we had our choice of lawn chairs, padded seats by the pool, a hammock, and what Beck went straight to—a queen-sized day bed, circular—just like the one in our room. A peach cover could be pulled over the bedding to block out desired amounts of sun, giving the chair the look of a conch. He plopped down in the middle, smiling—a king on his throne.
I laughed and took a lawn chair nearby. I was being honest when I said I thought it was too late to worry about complicating things, but I wanted to give him space—to decide on his own. However, when I tried smearing sun lotion on my back in blind sweeping motions, Beck said, “Emily, come here.”
I obeyed, barely feeling the heat of the deck beneath my feet as I padded over. All my nerve endings seemed to hold their breath for Beck and his touch. As his big, warm hand glided over my back, contrasting with the cool sun lotion, I had to hold in a groan. His fingers moved slowly but firmly across muscles that ached from two days of hiking. I couldn’t help but wonder how those fingers would feel in other places. I’d never be able to put on suntan lotion again without getting aroused.
“Sorry. The lotion is cold,” he said, probably because I had goosebumps, but they had nothing to do with temperature. My skin sang to his touch.
“‘Ts ok,” I mumbled, my whole body so relaxed, any movement asked too much, even talking, apparently.
“You have so many freckles,” Beck said quietly. And he seemed to draw lines with his finger across them, creating a picture by connecting the dots. It made me shiver.
“Mmmhmm.”
“This grouping on your shoulder looks like the Hawaiian Islands.”
I laughed.
“They’re beautiful.”
My laughter stopped. His comment surprised me because no one had ever called my freckles beautiful. Okay. My mom might have when I was about seven. Butterflies awoke in my stomach, fluttering at Beck’s words.
“Thank you,” I said, both for the compliment and the free massage via sun lotion application. As he capped the bottle, I started to get up from the bed, giving him his spot back, but then came the voices—Koontz’s loud party boy voice audible over the others. Beck pulled me down, and I let him, my head fitting on his shoulder, my side boob pressing into his bare ribs.
He’s making sure we look the part—like a couple, I reminded myself. That’s what we’re supposed to be. But my heart hammered at the closeness of him, at how easy it would be for him to flip on top of me. Because, apparently, that’s all I could think about this whole damn trip.
“Hey, love birds!” Doug called.
“Hey, loser,” Beck lazily called back.
“We’re getting some lunch and heading back to the beach,” Kat said. “You two should come. There’s this spot where the sandbar is shaped like a whale’s tail.”
Beck looked at me, seeing if I wanted to join. “Thanks,” I answered, my eyes trained on him, “but we’re good.”
“Oh, come on!” Koontz said.
I remembered Beck trying to slip out early this morning because he knew this would happen, that his friends would want him to come along, that they, in their own caring way, would bother him about it.
I planted a hand on Beck’s chest and then looked dead at Koontz. “We’ve got some other things planned for the day,” I said with a wink.
