Chapter Twenty-Three
Day Three: Move
Hot breath on the back of my neck.
A hand coasting along my rib cage and settling in the dip of my waist.
Lips pressed to the top of my spine. His voice, a growl.
“Do you like it slow in the morning?”
A knuckle brushes over the hard peak of my nipple.
“Tell me what you want, sweetheart.”
I have a fuzzy awareness that this is a dream—a perfect, morning-sex sex dream. My eyelids flutter, but I don’t want to wake up.
A tug, and my backside nestles against him. I gasp at how hard he is. It feels so real.
Too real.
My eyes spring open.
I’m on my side, in a cloud of white bedding, suctioned to George. His leg is thrown over my hip, and his arm is folded over my chest like a seat belt.
For a moment I lie there frozen, my ass pressed against his erection.
Desire pulsates between my legs, and I resist the urge to roll my hips.
Because, god, it’s been a long time since I’ve felt this.
While my brain knows crossing the line with George would be catastrophic, my body… Right now, my body wants George.
His lips sweep along my shoulder and he sighs, “Frankie.”
I stop breathing, my heartbeat a roar in my ears. I try moving his arm, but he holds me tighter.
“George.”
“Sweetheart,” he murmurs.
“George,” I say louder, tapping his wrist. But he only readjusts himself so that his chin is sitting on the top of my head. I try knocking off his leg, but it’s twenty yards long and made of lead.
“George émile Saint James,” I say in my sternest voice as I wriggle around, hoping to create some distance, but George lets out a sound that can only be described as sensual.
“George, wake up.” I dig my nails into his thigh, and he makes another guttural moan. “You’re dreaming.” And then his body goes taut.
“What the—”
Suddenly, George is no longer plastered to me.
“Oh shit.”
I feel the mattress move, and I sit up. George is standing with his bare back turned to me, his hands in his hair.
“Hey,” I say.
George spins around, horrified.
“You’re awake?”
I do my best to keep my eyes above his neck, but the tent in the thin cotton shorts he’s wearing is so large, I can see it even though I’m not looking at it directly. He drops his gaze and flushes from cheeks to chest. He folds his hands over himself.
“You were supposed to wake up early to run,” I say, my voice pitched high.
“You said you didn’t like to wake up alone, so I didn’t set my alarm,” he replies, far more flustered. His hair looks so floppy and soft, at odds with his rigid posture and tight voice. “You told me to sleep up here.”
“Okay, let’s calm down for a second,” I say, not sounding calm at all. “It’s not a big deal.”
George looks at me like I’ve suggested he throw himself from the balcony. “I was spooning you!”
I wince. “Actually, you were kind of grinding me.”
He covers his face with his hands.
“Uh, George. You’re still…” I gesture to his shorts. “You might want to…”
“Shit.” He spins around.
“It’s fine. It’s not like it’s the first time I’ve seen your morning wood,” I say as he heads to the dresser and pulls out a black tank top.
“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters, then peers at me over his shoulder, his eyes wide. “Was I talking in my sleep?”
Frankie. Sweetheart.
“Other than the lecture you gave on mangrove deforestation? No.”
His shoulders sag with relief, and he pulls the shirt over his head.
“I’m going for a run,” he says, not meeting my eyes. “After that, we’re having breakfast in the main lodge. Meet me there at ten. You’ll need your energy today.” His voice is clipped.
“Are you all right?”
He takes a pair of shorts out of the drawer, still not looking at me. “I’m mortified. I just need some space.”
The last time George told me he needed space, I didn’t see him for six months.
“Don’t be embarrassed. I think this was my doing.”
Finally, he looks at me.
“I was having a…suggestive dream about you. About us. And I think I maybe nudged closer to you in my sleep, and you put your arm around me, and…”
George doesn’t move. “You had a sex dream about me?”
“It’s not a big deal,” I say again, trying to convince us both. “You have a body. I have a body. Sometimes bodies just want things.”
“Sometimes bodies just want things?” he says slowly.
“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “And it’s been a while for me, so it’s possible I’m slightly hornier than usual.”
His brows skyrocket.
“You’re slightly hornier than usual,” he repeats, his voice strangled.
Oh no. I think I’ve broken George.
“Sorry. That was an overshare. You don’t need to know about the status of my sex drive. All I’m trying to say is that if anyone is to blame, it’s me, and there’s no need for you to be embarrassed. We’re both adults. Let’s pretend none of this happened.”
He takes a deep breath. “Okay.”
“Okay!”
We stare at each other.
“This is going to be awkward for a while, isn’t it?” I ask.
“Yeah. I’m going to go for that run.”
“Good plan.”
I’m going to take a cold shower.
· · ·
I head to the dining room to sip on a cappuccino while George runs.
Like the rest of the resort, the space is magnificent, framed in timber with cozy armchairs, a stone fireplace, and windows onto the forest and bay.
I’m shown to a table with a view, and after I give my villa number, I’m immediately addressed as Mrs. Gardiner.
It is one of the most beautiful rooms I’ve ever sat in, but the atmosphere is relaxed.
Out on the ocean, only a few surfers wait patiently for a wave.
The tide is low, and it’s a long way to walk from the forest to the sea, but a pair is making the journey, carrying their boards between them.
The sun is high and bright already, and the water is so blue.
There’s a yoga group doing sun salutations at the northern end of the beach and a baby crawling as fast as it can toward its older brother and father, who are wading through a nearby tide pool.
I could sit here all day watching. But I’m interrupted by a text from my oldest brother. It’s a photo of Birdie putting bows in Dad’s beard. Our father is quiet and stoic seeming, but he’s a softie. Mom was the disciplinarian. I don’t think Dad punished any of us while she was gone.
Me: Weird how much those ribbons suit him.
Darwin: He thinks so, too. He hasn’t taken them out. How’s George?
I roll my eyes. Everyone in my family keeps asking me about George, as if we’re on his honeymoon, not mine.
Me: George is George.
I press send, but then I realize that’s not accurate. George isn’t George. He has a therapist, a protein goal, and excellent cologne. He’s meticulously planned this vacation.
Me: Actually, he’s been amazing. We spent yesterday on a floating sauna in the middle of the wilderness. And he’s been cool about the breakup.
Darwin: You mean, he hasn’t said “I told you so” yet?
Me: Not even once.
Darwin: So he seems fine?
I frown. Aside from this morning’s debacle, why wouldn’t George be fine? I scroll through the photos I took yesterday. I send Darwin the one of George diving into the water as an answer to his question. He responds with a thumbs-up.
Aurora has been clamoring for more photos, so I send her a good one of George and me that Derek took when he picked us up. She replies right away.
Aurora: Why are you both soooo adorable?
Aurora: Did George get hotter???
Aurora: I think I need to change my official position.
Me: And what position is that?
Aurora: I thought the professor was perfect for you, but I’m coming around to the boy next door. I never thought I’d be team Laurie, but here we are.
I look at the photo more closely. I’m on George’s back, grinning down at him, my wet hair falling over my shoulders. He’s smiling up at me, his arms locked around my legs.
Me: You’re changing your opinion based on a cute photo?
Aurora: I’m changing my opinion based on the look on both of your faces. YOU GUYS ARE IN LOVE!
Me: Oh no. Not you, too.
Aurora: I’m sorry, honey. But I see it now.
My phone starts to ring. It’s Aurora. I reject the call.
She’s going to want a breakdown of every word George has spoken and every facial expression he’s made since he found me by the pool at the Big House.
She and Betty have been together for four years, and as a sucker for burgeoning love stories, Aurora is going to hound me until she gets her fix.
Aurora: Pick up!!!!! I need to know everything that’s happened so far.
Me: That’s why I’m not picking up!
Aurora: But I LOVE love.
Aurora: DO NOT HOLD OUT ON ME!!!!!
I zoom in on our expressions, and yeah, I can see how someone else might think there was something more between George and me.
Suddenly, I’m back in bed, with George’s arm around me, his voice purring in my ear.
Tell me what you want, sweetheart.
My skin flashes hot, and I look around the room, as if someone will be able to see every one of my filthy, intrusive thoughts.
In search of a distraction, I pull out the pages of research George gave me last night, settling on an article about situations that can make coping with a breakup especially difficult, such as the belief that an ex is your one true love.
George has underlined that bit and written three question marks beside it in black ink.
“Here’s your wife, Mr. Gardiner.”
I look up to see the host pulling out a chair for George.
“And congratulations to you both.”
His hair is wet from his post-run shower, and he smells amazing. He’s wearing jeans and a David Suzuki T-shirt I bought him two Christmases ago.
“What are you reading?” he asks.
I hold up the article and he nods. But I can tell there’s something else on his mind. He looks around the room, then leans closer.
“I know we said we’d forget this morning happened, but before we do, I’d like to apologize.”
“There’s no need, really. It’s fine.” But the memory of my dream and the heat of his body pushing against mine makes me shift in my chair. I open my menu, but I can feel George watching me.
“Frankie?”
“Mmm?” I continue to peruse the egg options as he drums his fingers on the table. He doesn’t say a word until I lift my gaze to meet his.
“I didn’t know what I was doing, but it was completely inappropriate. I’m going to sleep on the couch for the rest of the week.”
He’s taking this far too seriously. I need him to lighten up, to know that I’m not freaking out, even though I am.
“But who will grope me in my sleep?” I ask. “Who will whisper sweetheart in my ear?”
He pales. “You said I didn’t talk in my sleep.”
“It was more of a whisper.”
“What else did I say?”
“I don’t think you want to know.”
My phone buzzes with a text message.
Moby: How’s Saint James? Hit it yet?
I quickly set it face down on the table and open my menu again.
“You said I’d need my energy today,” I say, changing the subject. “What are we getting up to?”
The question is enough for George to forget his discomfort. “How do you feel about a new adventure?”
I peer up at him. “You know the answer to that.”
“Might need you to say it.”
“In that case,” I say, grinning, “I feel utterly desperate for one.”