Four #2
‘They’re disgusting.’
‘They’re an American staple.’
When my face clearly disagrees, Heath barks a laugh. Pushing off the railing we’re leaning against, he hovers a hand near the small of my back – not quite touching, just guiding me further into the fray. ‘What do you like?’
‘Things that aren’t fried.’
‘What a sad little life.’
I cut him a dry look. ‘I’m an athlete.’
‘I know. I’m kidding. I don’t eat this shit either.’
With a will of their own, my eyes trace the lean, honed muscles bared by a loose tank and tight shorts – emphasis on the short. No. I’m sure he doesn’t. ‘So what do we do?’
‘You’re gonna watch me adoringly while I win you something pretty.’
‘What if I wanna be the winner?’
‘How shockingly out of character.’
My knuckles find a hard sternum and punch out a huffed laugh.
‘Fine. I’ll adore you.’
And he does. He really does. He drags me through the crowd, past half a dozen food stalls and arcade stalls, until he finds one he likes and stations us in front of it, swinging an arm out toward the ring toss game as he commands me to show him what I’ve got.
And as I show him that what I’ve got is absolutely zero prowess outside of a swimming pool, he fixes those pretty freaking cartoon prince eyes on me and smiles like I’m the apple of them.
Four fucking rings, I toss and completely miss the narrow-necked bottles I aim for. I huff with irritation, clenching the final ring with one hand, scratching at my forearm as the itch of incompetence wreaks havoc on my skin. Tossing it haphazardly, I stifle a frustrated noise when it hits the rim.
‘Look at that,’ Heath nudges his shoulder against mine. ‘You’re not good at everything.’
I stiffen, trying not to scowl. Logically, I can recognize that it’s completely ridiculous for me to be annoyed right now. It’s a fucking carnival game.
Illogically, I want to crack one of those bottles over Heath’s head.
Rolling my shoulders back, I turn to him, feigning a bored, unbothered expression. ‘What next?’
Heath doesn’t answer. Uncharacteristically silent, he stares me down for a long moment, those eyes flicking over every curve, crease, and freckle of my face. He makes a noise in the back of his throat before handing the guy manning the stand another five-dollar bill.
I cross my arms over my chest, trying not to huff, trying even harder not to shove him off the goddamn pier as he accepts a new set of rings with a grin, clearly gearing up to show off – to show me up.
Except he doesn’t.
He holds out a ring, jiggling it when I hesitate to take it. Once I do, he plants both hands on my shoulders and gently turns me to face the bottles again before moving to stand behind me.
‘Here.’ Breath tickling my temple, Heath slides one hand down my arm. Covering my grip with his own, he gently guides me through a practice toss. ‘Like this.’
I swallow. Shift a little, a minute shuffle forward so the heat of his body isn’t quite so scalding.
My fingers twitch beneath his, flexing before curling around the plastic again, and when he gives me a little squeeze before retreating, I take the cue.
Moving like he showed me, I throw the ring at the rows of bottles lined up a foot away.
And because Heath is the fucking Midas of the cove, it lands exactly where it should.
‘Good girl.’ He drops a hand to my hip, squeezing gently, and I chose to blame the unexpected touch for why I shiver instead of the low, rumbling praise. ‘Do it again.’
I do. Four more times, and, every time, they catch the bottleneck with a loud, relieving clink. Every time, my chest puffs up just a little more, the corners of my mouth rise, and the urge to punch myself in the face for being so damn pathetic amplifies.
Though not quite enough to drown out the addictive buzz of success.
Lips brushing my hairline have me malfunctioning for a second, and it takes me another one too long to accept my stuffed animal prize the guy manning the booth hands over – I don’t snap out of it until Heath haughtily snatches the fuzzy blue whale for himself.
Lovingly cradling it to his chest, his knuckles graze the underside of my chin. ‘My winner.’
Though part of me begs to reject the idea of being his anything – I don’t even acknowledge the much smaller, much sillier, much more deprived part that simpers, just a little – I lock that instinct down. It would be counter-intuitive to the point of this whole outing.
It would confuse the many, many people I suddenly become very, very aware of. Mostly because they seem very, very aware of us.
Swallowing around a sudden lump of anxiety, I resist yet another knee-jerk reaction. The one that urges me to lock my fingers around Heath’s wrist and hold tight, ground myself as what’s meant to be a public display of affection is actually publicly displayed. ‘People are watching us.’
‘That is the prime objective.’ Smoothly, without hesitation, as if we do this all the time, Heath interlocks his fingers with mine. Raising both to his mouth, he kisses the back of my hand tenderly before tugging gently. ‘C’mon.’
‘Where are we going?’
He answers with another yank, dragging me out of the crowd and off the boardwalk, and down a set of sand-encrusted stairs to the beach below, and then back in the direction of the boardwalk again, except, instead, we go under it.
‘Is this where the cool kids hang out?’
‘This is where they fuck.’
Choking on an inhale, I trip over my own damn feet, only narrowly saved from diving head-first into the grotty sand by Heath’s tight grip. Bemused, bewildered, and honestly deeply fucking concerned, I gape at him. ‘You’re kidding.’
‘Nope.’
As a particularly rancid gust of sea air assaults my nostrils, I choke again. ‘People have sex under here?’
‘My, my,’ Heath croons teasingly, flashing a row of white teeth that aren’t quite perfect. A couple of gaps, a crooked incisor and a chipped canine that prove even he is capable of imperfection. ‘Aren’t we prudish.’
‘God forbid a girl doesn’t wanna roll around in dirty sand that smells like sewer.’
Heath hums a mocking, pitying noise as he whips off his shirt and lays it on the damp sand. Bare-fucking-chested, he gestures dramatically to the makeshift picnic blanket. ‘M’lady.’
I roll my eyes so they don’t linger on certain sculpted aspects of a bronzed, tattooed body. ‘Fuck you.’
‘Was that in the rules?’
My mouth twitches, but I don’t indulge the laugh sitting heavy in the back of my throat – I don’t give those twinkling eyes the satisfaction.
I just lift my chin and drop onto the thin tee that does very little to protect me from the sand, but, hey, I still appreciate the thought.
I even mutter some barely intelligible gratitude, followed by a much more audible ‘If we’re not .
. . ’ Jesus, I can’t even say it. ‘Then what are we doing down here?’
‘Letting people think we are.’
Something warms zip down my spine. Just another bout of humiliation, I’m sure. ‘Ah.’
Legs kicked out in front of him and crossed at the ankles, Heath settles that freaking plushy whale on his lap, leans back on his palms, and hits me with one of those fucking smiles. ‘What’s your favorite color?’
‘Don’t you know that already, oh wise one?’
‘Probably. Test me. Count of three.’
To my mental eye-roll tally, I add another strike, but I oblige. We count down in unison, and, at the same time, we bark, ‘Blue.’
Damn it. ‘Lucky guess.’
‘Guess mine.’
‘Why?’
‘Because we’re bonding, baby.’
‘I don’t know. Blue.’
God, that laugh again. ‘No. Brown.’
‘Brown? Like mud?’
‘Like coffee,’ he corrects, the gaze fixed so intently on me, as if we’re discussing something far more important than colors. ‘Espresso. Real dark.’
‘Odd.’
‘Beautiful.’
‘I meant you’re odd.’
‘It’s endearing, huh?’
‘Not the word that comes to mind.’
‘It’s something dirty, isn’t it?’
‘Jesus Christ.’ Choking on a laugh, I tip my gaze up, shaking my head at the pier’s grimy underside. ‘I don’t think I can do this.’
‘Daniela Marina Maldonado Williams admitting defeat? Did hell just freeze over?’
I don’t even question how he knows my full fucking government name. I don’t have the energy for it. A single outing and I’m mentally wiped. God, how am I ever going to keep this charade up? How am I ever going to keep up with him? Why did I ever—
‘Hey, Dani?’
‘What?’
Long fingers curl around my bent knee and squeeze. ‘Breathe.’
‘Can’t,’ I claim, though my lungs certainly seem pretty freaking willing to oblige. ‘Might get pregnant.’
He laughs so loud, I’m sure the throng above us can hear it.
Staring at the hand still cupping my knee, at the thumb tracing the curve of it, I toy with the borrowed t-shirt separating me from . . . y’know what, I’m not going to think about it. ‘How long do we have to stay down here?’
‘At least an hour. Won’t be very believable otherwise.’
‘Ambitious.’
‘I’m selling myself short, actually.’
I resist the urge to admit that anything longer than ninety seconds would be pretty damn impressive to me, if only because I think he’d find it more pitiful than humorous. ‘So we just . . . sit here?’
‘We could—’
‘Don’t even say it.’
Practically cherubic, Heath blinks innocently. ‘I was gonna suggest a friendly round of twenty questions.’
I snort – I frown some more, just a little, at that one word. Friendly. ‘Is that what we’re gonna be?’ I ask slowly, the very epitome of awkward. ‘Friends?’
‘Oh, baby.’ He pats my knee, freaking beaming. ‘We already are.’