8. Chapter 8 #2
It stings when I close my hand around the toolbox. I wince, switch it to my other hand, and head toward the side of the villa where Dom said the equipment room is. The noise from camp fades with every step until I’m around the corner of the house, out of sight of the lawn.
Finally, quiet.
I pull open the storage-room door and set the toolbox down inside.
“Give me your hand.”
I jump hard enough to nearly take out a shelf and turn around to see Zed blocking the door.
I press a hand to my chest. “Do you make a habit of appearing out of nowhere?”
His eyes drop. “Your hand.”
For a second, I genuinely don’t understand. I follow his gaze to my finger.
Then I notice what he’s holding. A tiny white packet. An antiseptic wipe tucked beneath one finger and a Band-Aid.
“You’re kidding.” I look back at him.
“Not often.”
My eyes return to the Band-Aid briefly before lifting to his. He found a Band-Aid for me and came back for my finger?
“Hand, Lilly.”
There’s something deeply annoying about how quickly my body responds to my name in his voice. I glare at him, but I hold out my hand anyway.
The second I do his attention drops completely his task.
His hand comes up and cups the back of mine.
There’s nothing suggestive about his touch this time. No slow drag of his thumb designed to make my breathing change. No eyes watching to see what effect he’s having on me.
He just turns my hand over and studies the cut.
His fingers look enormous around mine. Yet the grip itself is unbelievably gentle.
I look up at his face. He’s frowning.
“You’re taking this very seriously.” I try for casual, but my voice comes out breathy.
Zed looks up from my hand, his eyes moving to mine. Without breaking eye contact, he brings the antiseptic packet to his mouth and tears it open with his teeth. It’s the most strangely erotic thing I’ve ever seen. My teeth sink into my bottom lip before I realize it’s happening.
Zed’s mouth tilts into a small smirk as he pulls the wipe out. And then he presses it to my cut, making it sting.
“Am I hurting you?” he aks, his attention back on my finger.
“No,” I whisper absentmindedly.
Mostly because I’m watching him now.
Zed unwraps the bandage and positions the little padded section over the cut, his touch feather-light as he sticks it to my skin.
He smooths one side of the bandage down with his thumb, then the other, and presses once around the edge to seal it.
“You got me a waterproof one.”
“We’re at the beach.”
I stare at him, not saying anything.
“What?”
Nothing. That’s the problem. It’s nothing. A Band-Aid. A stupid little Band-Aid for a stupid little cut. Except everything I’ve seen of Zed Mercer says he doesn’t make things easier for people.
His thumb pauses against the side of my finger. Something shifts in his expression. His face becomes more serious than I’ve ever seen it.
“Where’s Miss Lilly?” I hear small voices coming from outside, excited for the ring-toss game.
Zed immediately turns his head toward the sound, then back to me.
Then he turns to walk out.
“Zed.”
He stops.
I don’t know why I called him back. He looks at me over his shoulder, and I lift my bandaged finger slightly.
“Thank you.”
For once, he doesn’t twist it into a joke or tease me. He just gives me a small nod before walking away.
I stay, watching him go as the kids begin making their way to me, one demand after another.
Only when he’s gone do I look down at my hand again.
Zed Mercer doesn’t strike me as a man who notices other people’s minor inconveniences.
Apparently, he notices mine.
By early afternoon, everyone seems to be sun-dazed after a full day of excitement. The younger kids are spread out across the lawn between the villas, shrieking over a bean-bag toss game. A few counselors are trying to keep score. The ocean keeps moving behind all of it, blue and sparkling.
I’m off to the side with a cluster of kids near the game boards, crouching every few seconds to hand back bean bags and settle arguments over whether something counted.
“That’s out,” I tell a little boy with grass on both knees.
“It touched the line.” He points a small finger.
“Okay, bud.” I laugh and hand him another bean bag.
Stacey is a few feet away, leaning down to fix the stance of one of the girls before sending her back toward the line. Every time I look up, there are more children. I’m not sure where they keep coming from. Some kind of beach-camp hydra situation.
And through all of it, I’m aware of him. Near but never close when there are kids around me. Like a shield of tiny people is the only thing he won’t walk through to get to me.
I straighten and glance toward the terrace.
He’s there on the patio with Dom and Jace, half in the shade, drink in one hand, listening while Jace talks with his usual amount of movement.
He’s not close, but he’s still somehow in my space.
I can feel it. That dragging kind of attention I’m starting to recognize even from a distance.
It’s intermittent. Enough to keep catching me off guard when I look up and find him already looking.
“You too?”
I turn my head to find Stacey beside me, hands on her hips, with a sly little smile.
“I’m sorry?”
“Mercer.” She tips her chin toward the patio.
The name lands like a pebble dropped into already troubled water.
I force my face blank. “What about him?”
“Come on.” Stacey glances at me, the look in her eyes pure trouble. “Half the girls here are already plotting. We need to be faster than them.”
“I’m really not sure what you’re saying.” I look back down at the kids.
“What I’m saying is”—Stacey folds her arms—“that it’s clear as day he didn’t come for the children. And I’m not wasting another opportunity.”
“Meaning?” I keep my eyes on the game.
“Meaning...” Her mouth curves. “I’m making my move.”
Something cold and unpleasant moves through me. “I think that’s a terrible idea.”
“Why?” She says it too quickly. “Because he’s scary?” She snorts. “That’s part of the appeal.”
Of course it is.
Stacey glances toward him again, lowering her voice into a confidential, wicked little tone.
“He showed up to a beach villa full of women in bikinis and camp shorts. I’m taking that as a positive sign.”
I stare at her.
She shrugs. “What? You think he’s here to make friendship bracelets?”
A child tugs on the hem of my shirt and asks me to settle another scoring dispute. I do it automatically, point to the board, send them back into position, and by the time I straighten, I can see the knowing look on her face.
“I’m just saying,” she goes on, “I usually just need the right bikini.”
My stomach turns. Some ugly, bitter part of me can picture exactly how Stacey goes after what she wants. She’s beautiful, competitive, shameless in a way I’ve never managed to be, and she talks about men like they’re challenges she enjoys.
That should calm me down. If Zed only wants sex, then Stacey is far more suited to whatever game he’s playing than I am. She wouldn’t feel like her own body had changed sides. She’d just go get what she wanted.
So why does the idea make me feel like I swallowed something sharp?
I look toward the patio again. Zed is still there with Dom and Jace, but his attention has shifted. Dom is talking, Jace is laughing at something, and Zed’s head is turned just slightly toward us.
Even from this distance, I feel that awful, immediate little tightening low in my stomach. The same one every time.
I look away first and crouch to pick up a fallen bean bag just to have something to do.
When I stand again, Stacey is still watching the patio.
“He can look all dark and tortured all he wants. I know how to get him.”
“Then go get him.” I make myself sound breezy and detached and not at all like my blood has turned cold under my skin.
It would be more convincing if my eyes didn’t keep dragging back to the patio.
“Watch and learn.”
Stacey doesn’t waste time. One minute she’s beside me, and the next she’s brushing invisible grass off her shorts and heading across the lawn.
I watch her reach the patio, making a few heads turn on her way.
She says something to Tanner first, maybe because he’s the safer landing point, then she angles herself toward Zed.
I try to look away. I really do. But I can’t. I’m forced to watch her laugh, touch her hair, and lean over so her cleavage becomes far more relevant to the conversation than it needs to be.
And I’m definitely not taking the noble, above-it-all way.
Because Zed doesn’t cut her off or shut it down to save me from having to watch her angle toward him.
I look away instantly, but my eyes refuse to obey and slide back to him not even five seconds later.
A bean bag lands at my feet, and one of the boys shouts, “Miss Lilly, that one counted!”
“Did it?” I say, not even looking at the child.
What is wrong with me?
Seriously. This is what should happen. If I keep pushing him away, then of course he’s going to turn to someone else to entertain him.
That’s fine. Stacey is exactly the kind of woman who would fit whatever this is if what he wants is uncomplicated.
The thought makes me feel like something is cinching tight around my ribs.
Jealousy? That word feels too ridiculous and unfair when I’m the one who keeps drawing lines and then acting shocked when other women try to talk to him.
But if it’s not jealousy, it’s something close enough.
By late afternoon, the camp has drifted down toward the beach.
The sun hangs lower now, taking some of the cruelty out of the heat.
The sand is still warm under my feet, the air thick with salt and sunscreen and the constant noise of children running themselves ragged.
Some of the kids are building sandcastles, others chasing a ball near the flatter stretch of beach.
I’m half-sitting, half-crouching beside a cluster of younger kids who are dedicated to digging the biggest hole they can.