Chapter 19
Nineteen
Fin would have liked to be able to say, when retelling this story in the future, that he did the gallant, gentlemanly thing and averted his eyes.
And that he did not succumb to her feminine wiles, did not let himself be distracted from his mission.
Because he was supposed to be sad, damn it. And this was Sweeney.
But Jesus, she was killing him with that brassy confidence and absolutely slaying him with that shirt, which hugged her boobs like the frame around a painting done by some old master.
And that cocky? It was the living end.
So, he did not avert his eyes. He stared. Agog. Possibly with his mouth wide open, although he couldn’t tell because he’d lost all sense of what his body was doing.
Was he distracted? Was he fuck.
The bottom half of the cups was a shiny satin, the top decorated in dark pink polka dots.
Then there was the trim. The lacy pink trim that sat flush against the full spill of her breasts and took a ride down into the soft valley of her cleavage, where it met a little pink bow sitting sweet and pretty, utterly belying the debauchery of both the garment and the action.
Fin blinked as the vision before him picked up pace.
It was all he was capable of as his heart banged to a standstill and his brain short-circuited.
Sweeney’s boobs. He was looking at Sweeney’s boobs.
Sure, they were in a bra, which was essentially no more revealing than a bikini top, but a bra was not a bikini even if they did happen to be on a beach.
A bra was intimate apparel. A bra was different. Bikinis were for anyone, bras were for a select few.
He felt like he was living in the grown-up, more X-rated version of that kiss all those years ago—thrillingly taboo, utterly unexpected, completely mind-bending. And it may very well have broken him because he sure as hell didn’t seem to be able to breathe, much less move, right now.
How long could a person stay upright without breathing or having a pulse?
Not even the wobble and bounce of said boobs as Sweeney passed right by him—completely unopposed—was enough to stir him into action.
What the hell was happening? It was like that spin-the-bottle night, only the discombobulation was tenfold. And he hadn’t thought that was possible.
Finally, though, her hooting and hollering behind him dragged Fin out of his inertia.
He sucked in a breath as his heart squeezed out a beat, then another, then another until, if anything, it compensated for its lack of action by going a little too fast. His hands slid from his hips.
He was functioning again. But how was he ever going to be able to face her, knowing those lacy, dotty boobs would be a permanent fixture in his head for a very long time—possibly forever?
Like a goddamn adult, dickhead. Now, turn your ass around and act normal.
With his pulse washing through his ears at what must surely be a dangerous rate, Fin took a steadying breath and slowly turned.
Sweeney was dancing some kind of jig, the dying golden light of day gilding her against the blazing backdrop of lake and sky.
At least her boobs were firmly tucked away now. Where they should always have been.
Instead of living rent free in his head for the rest of eternity.
Fin drew in a steady breath and repeated to himself—act fucking normal. Folding his arms, he shot her a look of faux outrage. ‘Sweeney Pearl Bailey, did you just flash me to get that ball past?’
She grinned as she picked up the ball. ‘Damn straight I did.’
‘I’m going to tell your mother,’ he sing-songed like they had as kids.
Sweeney snorted. ‘If you want to encourage their little fever dream, go right ahead.’
Crikey, she was right. Any sign of intimacy between her and him and they’d be incorrigible. ‘I didn’t know you had it in you to play so dirty.’
‘Maybe there’s a lot you don’t know about me now.’
Hmm. That was probably true but, having spent the last fortnight under the same roof, he was confident that she hadn’t changed that much. Surface stuff, sure, but not the stuff that mattered. Not really.
‘What if it hadn’t worked?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Call me a psychic but you’re’—she pointed to him—‘a guy. And these’—she jabbed a finger at her chest—‘are boobs. It wasn’t a stretch.’
Fin kept his eyes firmly trained on her eyes. Do not look at her boobs—do not.
‘Boobs,’ he deadpanned. ‘Ewww.’ He gave a faux shudder and wrinkled his nose, hoping it didn’t instantly grow a foot long.
She laughed. ‘Good try, buddy. If this had been summer and the gnats had been out, you’d have choked on an entire swarm of them just now.’
So, he had been gaping. ‘Okay, fine, I’m a boob man, sue me.’
‘Shocker,’ she said with a grin.
‘Yeah, yeah.’ Fin’s heart rate had settled to normal now and he was enjoying their banter. It was familiar and he needed that after her little act had set them adrift in very unfamiliar waters.
Not that she seemed to be rattled by it at all.
Which was another discombobulating component of this entire scenario and just too damn much to wrap his head around after a day of things too hard to wrap his head around.
Best to just move the conversation on.
‘Here.’ He clapped his hands as he tipped his chin at the ball still wedged between her hip and her arm. ‘Throw it to me.’
But it seemed she had the devil with her tonight. ‘Oh, hell no.’ She shook her head, her eyes sparking mischief again. ‘If you want the ball you better come take it from me.’
Fin wanted to call a timeout to figure what kind of fresh hell this was, but she looked so eager and playful, bouncing on the balls of her feet, it was infectious. ‘Oh, really?’ he murmured, bending his knees into his defensive goalie position again, playing along.
‘Uh huh.’
He waited several beats, swaying from side to side just watching her, clocking the alertness in every line of her body despite the grin splitting her face.
He lunged then on a burst of energy and adrenaline, roaring as he leaped forward.
Her eyes bugged and she let out a little squeal as she reacted a split second after him, bursting into laughter as she turned and took off down the beach.
There was no way she could outrun him but Fin was loving watching her try, her ponytail flying behind her, her laughter following her down the beach, loud and free as the dusk kookaburra chorus.
‘I’m closing in,’ he growled as he quickly gained then deliberately decelerated a little to give her some more time on the run.
It was worth it for her sassy, ‘In your dreams, Finley William Murphy,’ which she tossed over her shoulder.
Unfortunately for him, that’s exactly where this scene was going to end up.
And thanks to her cheeky little flash, they’d probably both be naked.
Pushing that unwelcome thought aside, he kicked on a spurt of speed, as the jetty and the teenagers who were still making out fast approached on the lakeside.
Gaining quickly, he reached out to grab her shirt and yanked.
She gave another little squeal as her forward momentum stopped abruptly and their bodies clashed.
Twisting in his hold to try to break free, her breath was warm on his neck as she panted and laughed.
Even as she tripped and went down—dragging him with her—she was laughing.
They collapsed in a heap, her on her back, him sprawled on top of her, his chest pinning her pelvis and legs to the ground, one hand in the cool sand, the other on her forearm, his face buried in her t-shirt around the area of her belly button.
Because, of course.
Marginally better, he vaguely supposed, than face planting in her crotch à la Michael Douglas in Romancing The Stone.
But that was before the king hit of his body wash filled his senses.
Body wash warmed from her exercise to a potency that should come with a warning label, radiating from her skin and infusing her clothes.
He almost, almost succumbed to the urge to take a long deep inhale, to push up her shirt and discover how it tasted mixed with the fine sheen of sweat he could feel beneath his palm.
It certainly wasn’t helping his breathing, still erratic from the run along the beach.
Thankfully another burst of her laughter, which had cut off at the jarring impact, rang out again, and the motion of her abdominal muscles brought him to his senses.
‘You okay?’ he asked, levering himself off, noticing the ball still clutched to her chest, which she’d impressively managed to hang onto despite the tackle.
Sweeney didn’t answer but she was still half panting, half laughing so there obviously wasn’t much damage done. Fin, on the other hand, intoxicated by the heady scent of her, could have broken his leg and not known it.
Lifting her head off the sand, she shot him an evil grin over the curved rim of the ball. ‘You still,’ she said through her panting breaths, ‘don’t have the ball, Murph.’
Fin blinked, his faculties struggling to recover from the confusing sensory overload of his scent all over her.
Where was her cranky demand for him to get off?
To let her up? She was trapped under him on the sand, and her first thought wasn’t freedom and a way past the awkwardness of their position, which clearly hadn’t registered yet, but to play the game?
Their eyes met, both the sparkle he could see dancing in hers and her smile confirming it to be so. And even though somewhere in the recesses of Fin’s brain a warning signal blared, the stir of his blood was much louder and he returned her impish grin with a great big one of his own.
She wanted to play? Like taking candy from a baby.
Without giving her any time to think, Fin grabbed for the ball with his closest hand. But she was ready for him, snatching it out of his reach in an overhead hold before he could reef it from her grasp. ‘Too slow,’ she said with a laugh, her belly muscles undulating again.