Chapter Twenty Nomi
CHAPTER TWENTY
NOMI
There’s something endearing about Julian really, earnestly trying to be cool.
It’s easy to forget how anxious he naturally is.
His sharp jaw, piercing eyes, the strong, compelling architecture of his face—all of it suggests a confidence you’d presume is his birthright.
How could anyone so attractive worry what the rest of us thinks?
But then this beautiful, successful man appears on your doorstep vibrating with nerves, armed with extravagant drinks he made to everyone’s exact liking and a playlist curated to encourage conversation.
At one point, I saw him scrolling through a lengthy to-do list on his phone, mouthing the word check over and over again.
And for what? Spending a weekend at the shore with a bunch of silly potheads?
I hadn’t meant to touch his thigh on the ride here, but he was so worked up, I longed to smother out all the little sparks of nerves burning him up.
The way he stilled beneath the press of my palm, his tight muscles releasing—it was heady having that effect on him.
But Julian’s always made me feel powerful.
After we exit for the Wildwoods and wend our way to Graham’s family beach house, a 1950s cottage by way of a very enthusiastic 1993, Julian hoists Eve’s heavy dessert trays through the sunny yellow door to the kitchen.
Eve, Graham, and I trail him like puppies, lured by the siren song of Eve’s baking.
“Finally! The moment we’ve all been waiting for.” Eve scrambles to unwrap the first tray, revealing happy red ramekins filled with green custard clustered together like coral. She pats one with a spoon, then dips it in and brings a full bite to her mouth.
Julian watches this with fingers gripping the counter, until he bursts, slapping the spoon out of her hand before she can taste it. “Eve, no!”
“What the fuck?!” Eve gapes as he pushes between her and the counter full of dessert.
“Do you know the rate of bacterial proliferation in a milk-based product left at room temperature for two and a half hours?”
“Of course I don’t know that!” Eve tries to move him aside, but Julian plants his feet. “Furthermore, I don’t care! They weren’t at room temperature!”
“Oh, shit,” Graham whispers.
“You’re right—they were in a hot trunk!” Julian darts side to side, effectively blocking Eve from her pots de créme.
My eyes widen. He doesn’t know the danger he’s in.
“STEP AWAY FROM THE DESSERTS, JULIAN!” Eve grabs a spatula from the drawer, wielding it like a weapon.
“E. coli! Listeria! Salmonella! Campylobacter!” Julian yells as he dodges Eve’s wild swings. “You’ll send everyone to the hospital if they eat it!”
“Okay, OKAY! Stop it, both of you!” I pluck the spatula from Eve’s upraised hand before she has a chance to put permanent grill marks across Julian’s pretty face, and Graham pulls Eve back.
I point the spatula at Eve. “We do not maim our guests, Eve.”
She glares at me incredulously. “We do when they fuck with dessert!”
“And you.” I spin on Julian, then break into a soft smile. “It’s very sweet to risk your life protecting us from—”
“E. coli!” Julian begins again. “Listeria! Salmo—”
“Yes, we get it. But Julian, the desserts were frozen when Eve put them in your trunk.” I glance at the contraband behind Julian. “They’re not even fully thawed yet. They’re fine.”
“They were frozen?”
“Yes! I’m not an idiot.” Eve shoulders out of Graham’s grip. “Now, step aside, D’Asshole.”
Tentatively, Julian does as he’s told, and Eve gets a fresh spoon and bite, then holds it up to his lips. “Would you like to do the honors, Doctor?”
Julian’s eyes flick nervously to mine.
“You don’t need to have any cannabis this weekend if you don’t want to, Julian. We’ll have fun no matter what.”
“Will it make me feel like it did at the Pot Luck?” He looks so tentative, so trusting right now. I really consider his question.
“Eve, you used your regular budder for these, right?”
Eve nods, her fury having disappeared into a strange, maternal encouragement as she holds the spoon near his mouth.
“Then yes, though it’ll be a lot milder since you consumed so much that night.”
Julian stands straighter, takes a deep breath, and after a long second, opens his mouth. Eve jams it in before he can change his mind. His jaw moves slowly, his eyes rolling back as he swallows.
“Oh my God,” he says, grabbing the ramekin from Eve’s hand and going carnal on the pot de créme. “This is amazing. Is that… pistachio? And black cherry?”
“Yes!” Eve claps her hands with delight. All has been forgiven in the face of Julian’s unbridled French custard lust.
“You’re really going to town on that.” I frown slightly as Julian viciously scrapes the bottom of the ramekin with his spoon.
His eyes slide up to mine, and he winks. “It might help with shifting my priorities.” He turns to Eve. “Thoughts on eating two?”
“That depends.” Her lips press in a thoughtful line. “Do you enjoy mild hallucinations?”
“Ooh, I do!” Graham takes a second while the rest of us stop at one.
“Okay, enough screwing around. Time to suit up, Doctor!” Eve slaps Julian on the ass, rather hard judging by how high he jumps, then throws her arms in the air. “We’re in Wildwood, baby!”
Wildwood, New Jersey—best boardwalk on the Jersey Shore, fight me.
Two and a half glorious miles of fudge shops and crass T-shirt stands, broken up by three piers filled with water rides, coasters, and a massive Ferris wheel that lords over the beach, glowing rainbow all night.
It smells perpetually of fresh French fries and salty ocean, and I love it.
There’s nothing more quintessentially summer to me than the cold sweet of Polish water ice on my tongue as I stroll down the boardwalk on a hot, humid night.
Our first stop is a pool party at one of the retro beach motels just off the boardwalk.
The mid-century pop-art aesthetic is strong here, with smiling, bubbly-eyed cartoon heads emblazoned on its sign, along with stylized beach balls bouncing across its squat, cream-colored stucco.
Julian takes everything in with parted lips, and when he strips off his shirt and throws it on a lounge chair, baring the trim stack of abs, broad chest, and the dips, lines, and mounds of shoulders trained to be strong, it’s all I can do to keep my own mouth from hanging open.
With all that Italian heritage, Julian’s meant to be sun-bronzed and glowing, but his olive-toned skin is unnaturally pale from too many summers spent indoors serving those different priorities.
He’s about to jump in the pool when I call his name with zero chill.
“Yes?” His eyes are slightly alarmed. Mine probably are, too, as I limply hold up the long tube of sunscreen with an uneasy smile.
A minute later, he’s sitting between my legs on the lounge chair, the long expanse of his back presented to me, waiting for my touch.
Oh, Jesus. What have I done?
“Thanks for reminding me,” he offers casually, as though I’m not back here completely winded from the proximity of his ass. “Skin cancer is serious.”
I squirt a line of cool sunscreen across his hot shoulders. He shivers, his back arching into my space, and a giddy, cloying kick of lust pulses low in my belly. I stare at the ludicrous stripe of cream. It’s obscene.
“Yes, very serious.” I repeat stupidly. My hands hover over his back. Touch him, I command myself. You’re making this weird!
With a burst of resolve, I press both palms into the cream, then deliberately smear it across his skin. Fucking outrageous, the way it gathers in the dimples of muscle, how eagerly his skin sips in the moisture from my hands, leaving him coated in a dewy, coconut-scented glow.
“So serious,” he murmurs. “That—skin. Cancer.”
God help me, but I’m losing myself in this sunscreen’s application.
It feels so intimate, touching him like this.
It makes the myth of Julian, this beautiful, difficult, admittedly brilliant man, more human and more vulnerable, seeing the freckles dotting his shoulders.
A small scar on the back of one arm. When I push my thumbs experimentally into the tense ridge of muscles flanking his spine, a small, plaintive sound sighs out between his lips, and my thighs involuntarily clench.
My fingertips trail down his sun-warmed skin, resting lightly against the waistband of his swim trunks.
I want to dip my fingers within, continue this exploration with my palms flat against him, cupping his ass before grabbing his hips and grinding myself against him.
Eve’s words just have fun echo in my brain. We don’t have to date. We can have fun, right? Is it that easy?
He eyes me over his shoulder and swallows, throat bobbing, his eyes wonderfully electric. “Your turn.”
I almost whimper. He stands quickly, then settles behind me on the long lip of the lounge chair. “Is this okay?” He murmurs into my ear, his chin’s fresh stubble grazing my shoulder.
I vigorously bob my agreement. He sucks a sharp breath in, then the cool kiss of sunscreen licks down my hot back.
“Pornographic,” he utters under his breath, then both of his hands land heavily, possessively there. My taut shoulders relax under his touch, and with the high THC, high CBD sativa blend singing through my system, my nerves buzz alive with every liquid pass of his hands over my body.
After what feels like a third comprehensive pass over my back, shoulders, and arms, he clears his throat roughly, sending warm breath prickling against my neck. “Um, is that enough?”