Chapter 24
Lyra
S
urrounded by the men, as well as the townspeople on the beach—some of which try very hard to get in front of the camera—I’m very conscious of Spencer.
After the game, I led the group into the water like some bikini-clad Pied Piper. Most of the men had never swum in the Atlantic Ocean, not to mention in the Gulf of St. Lawrence, and the shock of the cold water proves to be a challenge.
Spencer dives right in like I knew he would. A date at the beach gives me the opportunity to see him shirtless.
Again.
There’s no shame in this because I could feel the heat of his gaze as soon as I showed up in the red bikini.
And yes, I picked the colour and the style because it resembles the bathing suit I wore when we went on the Greece trip.
Am I trying to tease and tempt? Possibly for revenge?
All yes.
I remember every moment of time I spent with Spencer and how close we came to—
To what? What were we close to? All I know is that I took the coward’s way out when we were at the tipping point. Instead of leaning over to see what if, I backed away.
I ran, or as much as you can run when you’re on a yacht.
But Spencer never chased. He never pushed.
The only pushing we do is to push each other away, and I’m having a hard time stopping that practice.
After the swim, and once we pull clothes over still-damp bodies, we walk into town. It’s an odd pack moving along the boardwalk—seven men with me in the centre and clearly the focus, as well as three cameras recording every word and expression.
We stop in a few places: Dylan wants to check out the firehall, Liam stops at a market stand to buy late-season strawberries for me, Phillippe plucks a rose from someone’s bush in the front yard and presents it to me with a flourish.
Picking a stranger’s flowers is something I would do—and have done—but I don’t think it’s a good move for the show.
Finally, we end up at the local brewery and I laugh at the scuffle of seven men all trying to sit next to me, like a game of musical chairs and me as the last chair.
We start with a tasting fleet. The mood is casual and fun, even though I don’t like how Phillippe hovers, like he’s blocking access to me. Liam holds his own on my other side, and he is so sweet.
Too sweet for me, but better than the handsy Luc C. I might have accidentally-on-purpose elbowed him in the water earlier.
Once we’ve tasted the choices, I decide on a pint of hibiscus lager. After we’re served, across the table from me, Spencer raises his glass of stout. “Shall we?” The challenge is there in his eyes.
“What’s this?” Charlie wants to know.
I touch my glass with Spencer’s. “We shall. On three. One, two…” I tip the frothy beer to my lips and drink deep.
“Hey, slow down,” Phillippe warns.
The beer chug race is what my brothers and Spencer do when they’re together, and occasionally, they let me join in. To have Spencer instigate…
It’s on, because he can never finish a pint in one go. Neither can I, but I’ll give it my all.
I lock gazes with Spencer over the rims of our glasses and try not to laugh as his eyes bulge slightly. He makes it over halfway before admitting defeat and slamming down his glass.
I last a second longer.
“Ha!” I wipe my mouth.
“I don’t know whether to be afraid or turned on,” Dylan chuckles.
“I’ve always said I could drink you under the table,” I say.
“I’ll take a round with you under the table,” Phillippe says, pressing his leg against mine. I move it away.
Spencer inclines his head. “I bow to your greatness.”
“As you should.” My teasing smile is just for him, but then I bring the others in. “I grew up with four brothers and a father who has a micro-brewery,” I say. “They all like their beer.”
“Isn’t it five brothers?” Derrick asks with a glance at Spencer. “That’s what they call you. The fifth prince. You grew up together, so you should—”
“I stopped thinking of Lyra as little sister a long, long time ago,” Spencer interrupts, his gaze still on me.
“How long?” I have to ask.
“You were fourteen. It was the Sea Queen dance, and you wore pink.”
I laugh, because he remembers. “My Barbie pink dress,” I say proudly. “Mrs. Theissen said it would clash with my hair, but my mother said go for it.”
Spencer smiles. “That’s the one. There was no clashing.”
“Well, that’s all nice and good, but I’d rather be making memories with you, Princess, then listening to them,” Phillippe breaks the moment. “Can I steal you away for a few—?”
“I think Spence wants a rematch first,” I tell Phillippe without looking away from Spencer’s eyes, a strange silverly greenish-grey in this light. “And we’ll take it over there so I won’t embarrass him again.”
I ignore the murmurs as I stand up with my glass. Spencer follows me to a tiny high-top table beside the bar.
“You pulled me away,” Spencer says in a low voice. “Are you supposed to do that? I thought I wasn’t getting special treatment.”
“You’re not,” I tease. “This is how I treat all the guys.”
He lifts his glass. “Trying to get them drunk by chugging multiple beers? I’m happy to be pulled away by you anytime, especially if it gets you away from French guy.”
“I like most French guys, but not him.” I lean closer and Spencer follows suit. “He won’t be here much longer.”
“Good to know.”
Our faces are close together, close enough that I could kiss him if I rose on my tiptoes to get a little closer.
But I don’t. Not yet. Because when I kiss Spencer, it’s not going to be with an audience of men. I’m not kissing him on this date.
I can’t say the same for when Spencer will kiss me, because I know it will just be a matter of time.
It’s inevitable. I know that now. We will kiss, and it will change everything.
But I’d like to sort out my feelings before that happens, because once it does, Spencer will take a big part of my heart.
He doesn’t realize how much of my heart he’s already holding.
So I lean back before he takes advantage of the moment.
“I remember the first time I saw you drunk.” I cup my hands around my glass to stop myself from reaching for his hand.
“It was that royal dinner with the Danish prince, and you sat next to this older woman who was bored and wanted you to be her drinking buddy.”
Spencer makes a face. “Marjorie Turner. And I’ve never been able to drink a martini after that night.”
“You smelled so bad,” I reminisce with a grin. “And I still wanted to kiss you.” His eyes widen. “Oops. Should I not have said that?”
“Did you want to kiss me other times?” he demands. “Tell me.”
I shake my head with a giggle, and let my gaze slip to his mouth.
I’m glad Spencer doesn’t take after his father too much. Duncan has the chiseled good looks found on romance novel covers—for which he modeled for many years—but he’s almost too perfect. And he’s also like a second father to me, so having Spencer look like him would be weird.
Spencer showed me a picture of his mother once and it was obvious he took after her: the same high, sharp, cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes with the thick lashes.
And the mouth—wide and full, with lips curving down unless he smiles, and always with a hint of dryness because he refuses to use lip balm.
A tiny sigh escapes as I wonder how soft those lips are.
“You giggled,” Spencer points out.
“That was a laugh,” I argue. “Never a giggle. I’m too refined for that.”
“You may be refined but don’t forget, I’ve heard you belch like a sailor.”
I laugh loud enough to catch the next table’s attention.
“Tell me more about when you wanted to kiss me,” Spencer invites, looking very pleased with himself. He has a somewhat arrogant smile when he’s in public, and one that doesn’t reach his eyes when he’s tired. But I like this one.
I like that he looks so happy.
“You only get one of those memories,” I tell him with a shake of my head.
“A day, or ever?”
“Depends how well we’re getting along.”
“If you tell me about the times you wanted to kiss me, we’ll get along fine.”
“No, because that reminds me of the times we didn’t kiss.” My smile slowly fades. “And I might kind of blame you for those.”
Stop picking fights with him.
Again, not sure if that’s my mother’s imaginary voice or mine.
I give myself a kick. This is a new Spencer that I’m trying to get to know, but we always fall back into our old ways.
Bicker, bicker, argue. Stab, slash, and parry like one of Odin’s sword fights.
There is so much past between us that words sharpen when they don’t need to, and barbs are thrown unintentionally.
It still hurts. I shouldn’t want to hurt him.
Spencer straightens, his eyes full of regret and something else I can’t read. “I don’t think I’m the only one to blame. You’re a strong, independent woman. You could have kissed me any time you wanted to.”
“You’re right,” I say lightly, draining a third of my beer because it’s getting a little warm in here with all the talk about kissing. “I could.”
Present tense. Does he notice?
Oh, I think he does.
“Did you have fun at the beach?” he asks politely, his gaze fixed on my lips.
“I did.” My tone is equally polite. “And you?”
Spencer wrenches his gaze up to look me in the eye. “It had to be volleyball.” He rubs a hand at the back of his neck.
“I like volleyball. I’m good at it.”
“You are.”
“And you… not too much?”
“It’s hard to be good at something when I feel like I lose my cool when you’re around,” he admits.
“Sure, if you had some cool to begin with,” I tease, desperate for us to get back to the easy banter. One of the other men will interrupt us any minute now, and I want to leave this on a positive note.
I don’t want to leave him at all.
“I have cool,” he protests, clutching his chest. “You wound me.”
“I thought you were wounded when you took that ball to the side of your head. You need to learn to duck, Spence.”
“You were too much of a distraction, Lyra.”
My breath catches. His words pull a string in my belly, and in a minute, Spencer will be able to unravel me like a wool sweater.