Chapter 16 Jonathan
Jonathan
The afternoon AJ and I spend at the beach feels…
natural. Even with the gossip twins, Tanya and Elaine, tagging along.
AJ reads some of the book I packed for her, we graze from the charcuterie board Tanya somehow whipped up and we even brave the lake for a swim, until the icy water turns our limbs to popsicles.
But I’d freeze all over again if it means getting another look at AJ in that bikini.
Siren red. Two-piece. Underwire top that lifts her breasts like two perfectly shaped peaches; perky, round, not too small, not cartoonishly big, just…
optimally distracting. The bottoms are high-cut, clinging to her ass in a way that should come with a warning label and maybe a safe word.
She knows exactly what she’s doing when she puts that suit on. Sure, maybe she bought it for herself, but the second she saw it on in the mirror, she had to know she looked like a damn bombshell.
“You know that bathing suit is doing things to my head I probably shouldn’t admit,” I lean over and tell her as we sit on the dock, legs dangling in the water.
She giggles and says, “It’s which head that worries me.”
Okay, then. Little Miss Flirty Comedian. I like this sexy side of AJ and because she can’t leave it there, she splashes me with cold water. So I do what any mature man would do; I pick her up and launch us both into the lake.
She surfaces, shrieking my name. “Jonathan!”
We laugh. We laugh hard. But then I have to book it from that freezing water.
I run up, grab towels for us both and we sit out in the sun longer.
Talking. Just talking about everything. My family.
Her family. Favorite foods. The usual stuff couples discuss when they’re dating.
It feels nice to be able to be myself, not having to keep all my guards up, though I still keep some up.
I don’t tell her about the job offer in Boston, or that Manny likes her.
Or even that Manny knows our relationship is fake.
It’s not that I don’t want to help my friend out, get him in good with AJ, it’s just that I don’t think it’s a good fit.
I’m saving Manny from heartache… I think.
AJ doesn’t want to be with anyone. She wants to make Marcus jealous, and to be real, I think she wants Marcus back but hasn’t admitted it to herself yet.
So Manny would be hurt if he started to fall for AJ and then she wants her ex back.
Manny, yes. Just Manny, I tell myself. I’m sure she’s kept some things from me, too.
It’s not like we’re really dating and have to confess everything.
We all decide to head back to our cottages around three so we have time to get ready for cocktail hour at five with the whole group.
I let AJ shower first, because, well, women take much longer to get ready than men.
When she emerges from the bathroom, wrapped in only a white towel, my heart does a backflip.
Her wet hair cascades down her shoulders, water dripping onto the floor.
“I left enough hot water for you,” she teases, flashing a mischievous smirk.
I laugh, shaking my head. “Thanks.”
I shower in under five minutes and change in the bathroom, figuring it’s only fair to give her the bedroom for a little privacy.
“Is it safe to come out?” I ask, cracking the door and waving a white face towel like a surrender flag.
“Yes,” she calls back from the living room.
I step out and find her sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of a full-length mirror, meticulously applying eyeliner like she’s prepping for the Oscars.
“You’re not dressed yet?” I ask, genuinely confused.
“I save that for last, in case I get makeup or hairspray on my clothes,” she says, still hyper-focused on her eyelid masterpiece.
“Huh. Women.” I shake my head and walk into the kitchen. I can practically hear her eyes roll.
“Want a cocktail?” I ask, grabbing the vodka.
“Sure,” she replies quickly, then hesitates. “I’m nervous.”
“Oh yeah? Why’s that?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
“My dress is… kind of revealing,” she says.
The second the words leave her mouth, my hand jerks and I knock the vodka soda all over the counter. “Shit,” I mumble, scrambling for paper towels.
“You okay?” she calls from the other room.
“Yep,” I lie. “Just mentally derailed thinking about your tits and ass in something kind of revealing, thanks,” I add under my breath.
“What was that?” she asks again.
“Nothing, it’s good!” I shout back. “Weather should be nice out.” Smooth, Slack, real smooth.
She gets up from the floor and walks into the kitchen, barefoot and relaxed in joggers and a fitted tank top. And yet somehow, even in that laid-back outfit, she looks annoyingly hot. Her hair is still damp from the shower, pulled back in a loose bun that shows off the smooth curve of her neck.
“Wow, you look handsome,” she says, eyeing me up and down like she’s debating whether to climb me like a tree.
I’m wearing black slacks with a Ferragamo belt, Tom Ford loafers and a slim white dress shirt, also Tom Ford, sleeves rolled up just enough to show off the forearms. It’s calculated, but not too obvious. Just the right amount of skin.
“Thank you.” I nod slightly, giving her my best I-didn’t-try-that-hard head tilt.
“You always dress fancy, Jonathan,” she teases as she steps closer.
“I have style. What can I say?” I shoot back with a smirk.
She reaches out and runs a hand over my chest, fingers gliding along the fabric like she’s testing its thread count or trying to drive me insane. “This shirt is so tight, you can see the shadows of your muscles,” she murmurs, almost to herself.
What is she doing to me? I freeze, barely breathing, as her hand keeps moving up and down. It’s like the fabric of my shirt has become irrelevant and all I can feel is her.
She laughs and pulls her hand back. “Sorry. I think I have sensory issues. I always need to touch stuff,” she says, like that explains anything. She grabs the drink I made her while I try to shake off the image of her hands exploring more than just the cotton shirt attached to me.
I grab my own glass and clink it against hers. “Cheers.”
“Cheers to us being the best fake couple ever,” she adds, her voice teasing but bright.
We sip our drinks, eyes locked just over the rims of our glasses. All I can think about is how much I want to kiss off the rosy-pink lipstick she’s wearing and taste the cocktail on her tongue.
“This is actually delicious,” she says, licking her lips like she’s doing it on purpose. “What did you put in it?”
“I ordered one of those cocktail baskets with lemon vodka and soda setup,” I manage to respond, though I’m far more focused on the shape of her lips, the way they part and move and thinking about how they’d feel tracing over the parts of me that ache for her.
“It’s good,” she says, taking another sip, this one longer. Then she sets her glass down with a soft clink and I seriously consider launching Operation: Kiss Her Anyway.
“Okay, I gotta go get changed,” she says, then dashes out of the kitchen, hips swaying in those damn joggers like she doesn’t know the damage she’s doing.
While I wait, I down the rest of my drink. Then I down hers. Blame it on nerves. Blame it on the mental reruns of her in that red bikini. Or the phantom heat of her lips on mine. Whatever the cause, I need to be at least slightly buzzed if I’m going to survive tonight.
About twenty minutes later, the bedroom door opens and for a second, I swear the earth tilts on its axis.
She steps out gingerly, almost uncertain, like she doesn’t realize the kind of damage she’s about to do.
The dress is fuchsia, tight in all the right places, dipping at the waist and skimming along her thighs before giving way to a slit that slices high up her leg.
My eyes can’t decide where to land, on the curve of her hips, the long stretch of her legs, or the way her breasts are cradled in the sculpted top, like the dress was made for no one else.
Her hair is dry now, wavy yet styled and when she tucks a strand behind her ear, something in my chest pulls tight.
Her heels are strappy and nude, adding just enough height to make her look like an elegant goddamn vision.
She smooths her hands down her sides, glances up and tilts her head like she’s waiting for a reaction. I’m reacting. Just not in any way I can say out loud. All I can do is stare and try not to fall to my knees.
She spins with her arms out. “Too much?” she asks innocently, as if she doesn’t know she just detonated every sane thought in my brain.
I can’t speak. I might be drooling. Possibly having a stroke.
“Jonathan?” she prompts again.
I shake my head, snapping myself out of the very detailed visual I was having about getting her out of that dress using only my teeth.
“Yes. Sorry. No, not too much,” I stammer. I blink, then manage, “I mean… damn, AJ.” I clap once. “You look hot.”
She curtseys like she’s still the same goofball in joggers and somehow that makes her even more devastating. “Thank you.”
“Marcus is going to be eating out of your hands tonight,” I mutter.
She smirks and struts toward me while her breasts shift in the dress like they’re fully aware of their power. And in that moment, I realize something dangerous: I want to bite them.
Jesus Christ, Jonathan. Get a grip.
She reaches for her drink, only to find it empty. She holds up the glass and gives me a look. “Thirsty?”
I rub the back of my neck, clearly busted. “Yeah.”
“It’s okay,” she says, all sunshine and mischief. “You can buy me another one when we get down there.” She winks. Then, because she’s apparently trying to kill me, she turns, bends over and adjusts her heel, ass lifted like a goddamn invitation.
In this moment, it hits me, this isn’t just about wanting to sleep with AJ.
It’s not just attraction or timing or chemistry.
I want to be the guy. The only one she wants, now and always.
Not her ex. Not some nice rebound. No one else.
I want to be the one who gets her laugh at 7 a.m., her stubborn debates at midnight, her brilliantly infuriating opinions and that mouth I haven’t stopped thinking about since the day I met her.
I don’t want to be a chapter. I want to be the whole damn story.