Chapter 9
ABBY
Miles Barker is in the hot tub I want to be in. I was hoping to have the jacuzzi all to myself tonight, given that every night I’ve passed by it’s been completely empty. It’s just my luck that not only is it not empty, but Miles is in there.
I can see him from here, twenty or so feet away from me. This is the closest hot tub to my room, and so I guess it’s also the closest hot tub to his room.
He’s draped over the side of the tub, an arm outstretched to either side, looking at ease, that silver chain he’s always wearing resting against the contour of his chest. I pause.
Maybe I should find another hot tub. There are more around the property, but I don’t have the same urge to run away like I did the first two days I was here.
I am a little annoyed that some unforeseen force keeps putting us into close proximity, but I had fun with him at the beach party last night.
Miles has always been the kind of person who could make any situation more fun.
He had that reputation on campus, too; if he showed up to a party, it would go to the next level.
One time, he killed the music at a frat house and started up a karaoke machine.
There was no screen of lyrics, and the music was just music, but Miles knew every word to “Sweet Caroline” by Neil Diamond and had the whole party yelling the chorus every time he came to it.
The rest of the party just did karaoke the whole night.
It was wild and talked about on campus for months after.
Fraternity brothers would seek him out on campus during the week and beg him to come by their party, not for blind karaoke, but just to bring his energy.
It was nice to experience that energy last night when we danced. The alcohol I’d been drinking helped me loosen up a bit, but I knew it was safe to let go with Miles and be silly.
Maybe it isn’t such a bad thing to be around someone like that right now. Maybe letting my handsome ex–hockey player ex-boyfriend flirt with me would heal me, or chase away the horrors of the last year of my life.
He turns toward me, alerted by the slap of my flip flops on the concrete as I get closer, and oh, the way his face lights up when he sees me.
Why does that make my stomach dance?
“Fancy seeing you here,” he says as I approach.
I stand in front of the stairs of the hot tub, arrested by the reality of sharing a hot tub with this man.
The dim, blue lighting of the jacuzzi highlights the cut of his muscles.
His shoulders are huge, the muscles in his arms telling the story of his professional athletic career and a second career in construction.
In all the places his body isn’t in the water, droplets form along his skin, like raindrops on a windshield, begging to be wiped away. Or licked off of him.
Oh my god, Abby. Get it together.
I’ll sit in a tub with Miles and maybe let him make me blush a little, but I need to keep my hands to myself. As if on cue, my hand twitches, hoping I’ll betray the part of my brain screaming not to touch him.
“Are you coming in?” he asks, breaking the silence. “I don’t bite. Unless you want me to.”
My face heats. I guess I have just been standing here gawking at him.
I kick off my sandals and slip my navy-blue dress over my head, trying not to think too hard about how it feels to sort of undress in front of Miles.
Thank god I had the sense to choose my black one-piece instead of one of my bikinis.
I feel less sexy in this thing, and the last thing I need while climbing into a very small hot tub with my attractive ex-boyfriend, whom I am trying to keep my hands off of, is to feel sexy.
I slip into the water, holding back a groan.
It feels…heavenly. I expected it to be too warm given the temperature outside the hot tub, but it’s wonderful.
I sink down on the built-in seat, keeping as much of a distance from Miles as I can given the limited space, and lean my head back against the edge, closing my eyes.
Why did I wait four nights to come to the hot tub? This is amazing. Maybe I didn’t need an entire vacation in Mexico to calm my nervous system; I just needed a jacuzzi.
The bubble of the jets is soothing, lulling me into a deep sense of calm. Ambient music plays nearby. I think they hide speakers in the landscaping, and although it feels a little manufactured, I can’t deny that it does add a touch of tranquility to the whole place.
“You doing any excursions while you’re here?” Miles asks, interrupting my peace.
“Yep. I signed up for a few of them. Did one today, in fact.”
“Let me guess, horseback riding, jet skis, and scuba diving?”
“Nope,” I say. I was impressed by his memory of my migraines and the Gatorade, but I am obviously easy to impress. Guess he doesn’t know me as well as he thought he did.
“Yeah, I didn’t think so. My actual guess is…some kind of art tour in town, something with a sunset—I think there’s like a cruise with drinks and stuff. And something with animals that aren’t horses, maybe the dolphin experience?”
I lift my head, setting my gaze on him, my jaw going slack.
How the hell…?
“I…yeah. Well, sort of. No art walk, but I’m hiking to a lighthouse. I do have a sunset sail, and two animal things,” I say. “I’m going to the sea turtle conservation place in a couple days, but today I went swimming with stingrays. I’m—color me surprised, Miles.”
“I remember you, Abby. I know you.”
“You made some vague guesses,” I say, downplaying how surprised I am at how well he guessed what I would do here. “The migraines are sort of an obvious one and—”
“I’m guessing you still love Taylor Swift?”
“Well, yeah, but everyone likes a lot of the same music they liked in college.”
“And your favorite ice cream is still strawberry?”
“Again, plenty of people like the same ice cream as—”
“And you still sleep with the bathroom light on since you get up to pee in the middle of the night?”
“Okay, I see the point you’re making, but—”
“And you separate out your food on your plate so it doesn’t touch.”
“Anyone who—”
“When you sneeze, it’s always three times in a row. And you get the hiccups after you drink something with carbonation.”
I want to be annoyed by this. I want to chalk it up to anything other than what it is, and I want to ignore the way it makes my stomach feel like someone took it out of my body and placed it in the front seat of a roller coaster.
It’s unnerving how well he remembers me. I told myself for years after he left me for his real first love—hockey—that he forgot that I existed, that he never thought about me again.
But after what he said the other night… “I am tormented by what could have been.” And now seeing all the things he remembers and seems to know about me, I don’t think I can safely assume that I never crossed his mind.
In fact, it seems like it was quite the opposite. Like maybe I never left his mind at all…
That thought should not make my heart beat a little faster.
“All right, I’ll admit it,” I say. “It seems you do know me. Or at least you have a decent memory. But why? Why hold on to all of that information?”
He scoots closer to me, dipping his arms back into the tub to move himself along the bench.
“Why do you think?” His voice is gravelly, a thousand implications in his words. I shouldn’t be able to hear him over the jets—his voice is so low and quiet—but I feel like he’s right in my ear.
“I’m not going to guess or play games. We’re too old for that,” I say.
He moves a little closer, the gap between us closing, and my pulse quickens. I don’t move away from him. I don’t really mind it, even if there’s a part of my brain telling me it’s a bad idea to let him get so close.
But he’s still at least an arm’s length away from me. And that feels fine. A safe distance.
“I didn’t let go of you when I ended things.”
I didn’t either.
“Maybe you should have.”
“Maybe I should have,” he repeats, eyes glued to mine.
I couldn’t look away if I wanted to. He inches closer, and alarm bells go off in my brain, but my body is deaf to them.
His voice has taken on a serious, almost seductive tone, and I think it’s working.
My heart is hammering in my throat. There’s a dull ache between my legs already.
“Were you holding out hope that I’d come running back to you?”
A corner of his lips lifts in amusement. He seems to like that I’m taunting him.
“More like, I’d hoped you let me come crawling back to you one day,” he says.
Desire weighs on me, my bones heavy with it. I can’t take my eyes off him as he moves toward me with languid, careful movements. The water flows around him, all sounds drowned out by the jets and the blood thrumming in my ears.
“Maybe if you got on your knees,” I say. “I like a bit of groveling.”
“I can get on my knees,” he says, his lips curling in a knowing smile. My mind conjures the way he used to set me on my bed and kneel in front of me to pleasure me until I forgot my name, an image he would be delighted to know he elicited.
I swallow hard. I have too much moisture in my mouth, and I’m practically drooling.
I scan his torso, taking him in from shoulders to waist, everything I can see above the water line, and it was the wrong thing to do.
Up close like this, his body is unreal, and I have to dig my fingers into the bench to keep from exploring with more than my eyes.
I clench my legs at the throb of desire between them.
“And grovel?” I prompt, nearly breathless.
“I would grovel for you,” he says, his voice dangerously low—and, fuck, I don’t think a man has ever said something so hot to me. That dull ache between my legs feels more insistent now.