Chapter 8 #2
Giving him some sunscreen isn’t that big of a deal. It’s not as if I’m proposing to the man.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I grab an extra tube of sunblock from the hall closet and prepare to cross enemy lines for the second time in as many days.
Lola’s Mustang is still in the driveway, and I imagine that she and Willow are cackling like rabid hyenas right now, but I don’t look because, if I do, I’ll lose my nerve.
Who cares if I’m attracted to a jerk? At least I know exactly what I’m getting into. And it’s kinda nice to be the one making this decision instead of waiting around for a man to make the first move.
When Ethan sees me at the base of the stairs, his eyes widen behind the safety glasses he’s wearing.
“Did you put on sunblock today?” I shout over the shrill noise of the electric saw.
He draws back the wood before pushing the glasses onto his forehead, making his hair stick up every which way.
I want to drag my fingers through it. Give it a tug when he’s being a dick.
This is a new low for me.
“What?” Ethan shouts.
I’ll be damned if I’m going to stand here and yell at this guy. I climb up the set of bowed, blackened stairs he’s rebuilding, smirking down at them. And he had the gall to give me crap about my staircase. Maybe while he’s fixing his, he’ll throw a couple of boards my way.
I clear my throat, waiting for him to turn off the damn saw. When he doesn’t, I flick the red button for him. “I said, did you put on sunblock today?”
He braces his hands on his hips, right where they cut in toward his low-hanging jeans, but doesn’t answer the question I’ve asked twice now.
Maybe I don’t want to go out with a jerk.
I don’t care how hot hate-sex is.
My gaze accidentally trails to the front of his jeans.
Imagine all that in a wetsuit.
Stupid Lola putting crazy thoughts in my head.
My gaze flies back to Ethan’s frowning face.
I came over here on a humanitarian mission that doesn’t include drooling or ogling. “Look, if you insist on working without proper attire and don’t put on lotion,” I say, “your back is going to get even more sunburnt than it already is. Here.” I hold out the lotion. A coconut-scented olive branch.
Ethan swipes a hand across his sweaty forehead. “How do you expect me to put that on my own back?”
Walked straight into that one. “I guess I can do it.”
He mutters something under his breath but turns around. This isn’t a big deal. I put lotion on my friends all the time. A back is a back. “You’re sweaty.” And yet he smells like sawdust and men’s soap.
“No, I’m Ethan.”
This guy’s jokes are terrible. I’m completely unaffected and definitely not enjoying how disgusting his hard muscles feel beneath my hands. Gross.
“Are you done yet? It’s making me cold.” He shudders.
“Skin cancer feels worse.”
It’s not just the pain of getting a chunk of yourself removed or the fear that maybe they didn’t get it all that sucks.
Don’t get me wrong. That hurts like hell.
But the worst part about getting cancer is the pit in your stomach that opens up from the day you receive the diagnosis to the moment the doctor hopefully gives you a clean bill of health.
And every day after that, because you’re afraid they were wrong and it’s going to come back.
I was one of the lucky ones. There are way too many stories I’ve heard that don’t end happily. No one deserves that.
Ethan glances over his shoulder, his green gaze searching my face. “You had cancer?” he asks, his voice softer than I’ve ever heard it.
“Afraid so.” I nod and tap my arm where the hideous scar dips into my skin.
“Right here.” Originally, I wanted to get a tattoo to cover it up, but my doctor told me not to in case the melanoma came back.
Instead of scrapping the idea, though, I decided to get one in a different spot as a celebration of my health.
Willow claims that mermaids symbolize rebirth and renewal, and when I saw her sketch, I knew it was perfect.
It takes me a second to realize my hands are still pressed to Ethan’s broad back, his serious eyes focused on me. The blazing sun has nothing to do with the heat that climbs up my chest.
I yank my hands off his skin, then twist the cap back onto the tube and toss it onto the pile of short boards next to me. “Consider this payment for the tire and my brakes,” I say.
The corner of his lips twitch, almost as if he’s about to smile. “Thanks.”
I should leave.
I helped, and he let me, and this should conclude our business together.
Imagine all that in a wetsuit.
Curse you, Lola.
I draw a breath. “So, I was thinking about our conversation last night and thought we could find some adventure this weekend.”
His mouth tightens and a crease finds his brow. “I’m working on a tight deadline, Chloe.”
I like how he says my name—all irritated and grouchy, just gruff enough to make my stomach flutter. “You’re not a robot, Ethan. You can’t work all day every day.” That’s a surefire way to burn out. “Come surfing with me. I promise it’ll be fun.”
Beads of sweat trickle from his collarbone down to his taut chest. “If I say yes, will you leave me alone?”
“Probably not.”
He huffs a reluctant chuckle. “Fine.” He holds up a finger. “One surfing lesson.”
“You never know. You might like it.” I give him a smile, then turn and walk back to my house.
Now to find a wetsuit to fit the Thor next door.