Chapter 13 #2
“If you suggest peeing on it, Rory, I swear to God I’ll—”
“Seawater will help.”
“I was just in the sea!” I exclaim. “That’s how I got like this in the first place.”
He ignores me, hoisting me up before helping me hobble down to the edge of the water.
“What if it’s a dangerous one?” I mutter as I dip my foot back in. “The Portuguese ones.”
“There are no Portuguese ones around here and Sinead has some painkillers in the car. Hold still,” he adds. “You’re squirming.”
“Because I’m in pain .” But I do as he says and after a while, the burning lessens a bit.
“Better?” he asks.
“A bit.” I flex it in the water. “But I need to get out of this wetsuit.”
He grins. “You want some help with that?”
“You wish.”
“If Sinead’s your problem, I’m telling you now she’d love to join in.”
I laugh as he helps me limp back up the beach. My bag and clothes are where I left them on the towel and I shake them out as Rory aims for the parking lot.
“I have to get the stuff out of the car,” he says. “The bonfire will be at the north beach. And hey,” he calls as I head toward the stalls. “Just because you’re injured doesn’t mean you’re getting out of carrying stuff.”
I wave a hand to show I’ve heard him and lock myself in one of the changing cubicles by the toilets.
They’re cold and cramped inside with barely any room to move.
I hang my towel on the rusting metal hook, wrinkling my nose against the stench of the sea, sweat, and bleach as I reach back to yank the zipper down. It doesn’t budge.
I yank harder, my fingers fumbling now as they stiffen. Warm-blooded people will never understand the struggle. Taking a breath, I try again, my shoulder protesting as I try and angle my arms into positions they should not be in.
“Abby?” Luke’s voice sounds on the other side of the door accompanied by a knock. “Rory said you got stung. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I call as I almost wrench my arm out of its socket. I mumble a curse word, which Luke must hear because he doesn’t leave.
“Do you need some help?”
“No.”
“I’ve got a first aid kit in my car.”
“I’m fine,” I say. “I just need to— Crap.” I give the zipper another pull and lose my footing on the wet floor, banging my elbow painfully against the wall as I try to keep my balance.
“I’m coming in.”
“No, don’t!” I scramble for the door, shutting his progress.
There’s a short pause. “Are you naked?”
“No.”
Another pause. “Are you stuck in your wetsuit?”
Kill me now. “Yes.”
“Then let me in the door.”
I think about asking him to get someone else, but I doubt he’d do that. It’s something I’m learning about Luke. He’s not one to leave a damsel in distress. Even if that distress is due to something really fricking stupid.
I undo the latch and step back as far as I can. Which isn’t that far at all. “Okay,” I call when I make sure my underwear isn’t just hanging around anywhere.
He slips inside, glancing over me as though looking for any obvious signs of injury. He’s still in swimming trunks, his feet bare, his skin wet. There’s sand in his hair.
“The zipper’s stuck,” I say as if that weren’t obvious.
“So you were just going to stay in it for the rest of time?”
“Potentially.”
Luke only shakes his head. “It’s okay to ask for help, Abby.”
He takes a step farther inside, closing the door so we can both fit, and I turn in an awkward shuffle, careful not to let my body touch his.
We stay like that for a microsecond, me with my back to him, and I hear him take one perfectly normal breath while meanwhile my entire body seems to hum, vibrating from the very presence of him.
He tugs my hair free and I flinch when his fingers meet my skin.
“Sorry,” he mutters. “Cold hands.”
“That’s my line.”
Luke doesn’t respond, pulling gently on the zipper and then harder when it doesn’t budge.
In an ideal world, my fantasy world, he would seductively bring the zipper down, marveling at the hint of my skin as he brushes my wet hair from my shoulders.
He’d be overcome by the delicate curve of my neck, maybe even press a kiss to it, which I’d graciously allow before turning my head to face his and then—
“Hold still.” He yanks on it a third time and I yelp as he catches a bit of my hair. “Sorry,” he says. “These things are really old. I’m going to have to get a pair of scissors.”
“No. Just pull it.” I brace my hands against the concrete wall.
Luke hesitates. “I’m either going to rip it or hurt you.”
“You’re not going to hurt me and it doesn’t matter if you rip it. You were going to cut it up anyway.” I close my eyes, concentrating on the cold concrete under my palms. “Hurry up before I freeze to death.”
He holds the fabric in place as he yanks it again, hard enough to make me lose my grip on the wall and we both slip backward, Luke into the door and me into Luke.
For one humiliating moment we’re aligned, his chest hard against my back, his trunks leaving little to the imagination even through the rubber of my suit. I feel his breath on my hair. I feel everything.
“Abby?” Luke’s voice is tight.
“Sorry!” I push myself off him, adopting my previous position as I start to babble. “You know what? It’s fine. Get the scissors. Or I’ll just live like this. I’ll adapt. I’m very—”
I stop talking when his hand lands heavily on my shoulder, keeping me faced forward. His foot taps my left ankle, and I slide it out so I’ve got a steadier stance.
“Let’s try again,” he says, and I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
It takes two more goes, then another breath, another pull, and this time there’s movement as something aligns and I sigh in relief as cold air hits the nape of my neck.
The zipper gets stuck halfway down my back but it’s enough to free my arms, and Luke helps me as I clumsily peel it over my hips and down my legs while making sure my swimsuit stays in place.
I’m covered more than a lot of people on the beach, but he’s still standing far too close and I’m aware of every stretchmark, every pucker of skin and goosebump, as my blood works overtime to keep me warm.
Before I can stop him, Luke crouches to tug the suit free of my ankles. “Is your sting okay?”
“It’s just itchy now. I’ll get some cream.”
He doesn’t say anything and I look over my shoulder to see him examining the rash in a thoroughly unromantic way.
“All done,” I say sharply, and he rises as I face him. “Here.” I hand him the sodden mass of rubber that is the wetsuit. “We can burn it on the bonfire.”
He accepts it wordlessly, his gaze sliding down my body, and this time I don’t think he’s concerned about the sting. As if realizing what he’s doing, his eyes snap back to mine, his neck flushing a gentle pink.
“You should get dressed,” he says. “We’ll be on the other side of the dunes.” And in the space of a second, he slips back out and disappears.