People have congregated on the beach. And not just a few stragglers, but a whole freaking crowd. It’s suddenly swarming with people.
Everyone’s gazing out at the sea—or more accurately, at us, the naked idiots frolicking in the waves.
“Um, Connor?” I hiss, slapping his wandering hand away. “Why the hell are there people on your ‘private’ beach?! Did you forget to put up the ‘No Trespassing’ sign or something?”
He turns his head. “What the hell?” he mutters, his brow furrowing.
I use his sturdy frame as a makeshift privacy screen, watching as what seems to be half the town gathers right by our abandoned clothes.Oh no. My leprechaun bra.
“What are they doing?” I ask, my voice choked with anxiety. They’re looking at us. They’re just standing there in a row, dressed in black, and staring at us, like some kind of bizarre cult.
“Shit,” he hisses, his voice dripping with as much confusion as my mind. “I don’t know.”
Oh god. This is bad. Have they come to sacrifice us? I’m pretty sure Grace didn’t pack for a séance.
“They definitely don’t look like they’re enjoying themselves,” I panic-shriek. “Why are they just standing there staring out to sea? And why are they all wearing black? Are they goths?”
“Shit, is that a priest?” Connor mutters.
I squint and, to my utter horror, confirm the presence of a tall figure in long robes among the crowd. Oh my freaking god. Tell me we didn’t just barge in on a funeral service.
No wonder there’s a black-clad weeping woman in the mix. It makes a horrifying amount of sense.
As we drift closer, the priest holds up an ornate urn. Dread sinks into my stomach.
“Connor!” I choke out. “They’re about to scatter ashes into the sea!”
“Fuck,” he curses, his voice hushed in shock. We both fall silent for a moment, watching in disbelief as half the crowd bows their heads in somber reverence. This is really happening. We’ve accidentally crashed a funeral, and we’re naked.
But the other half are staring at us, probably debating whether to call the cops. Garda, they’re called in Ireland.Indecent exposure at a funeralis probably not something the Garda encounter every day.
“We need to head back,” he says, his tone urgent.
“What?” I screech. I can’t tear my eyes away from one woman’s wrenching sobs. Guilt gnaws at my insides.
“We’ll just make a discreet exit,” Connor mutters, as if we can just dissolve into the sea mist.
For a super smart and ruthless businessman, he sure as hell can be dumb sometimes.
“Discreet?How? What do you expect us to do, just moonwalk out of the sea butt-naked?” I sputter incredulously. “I doubt ‘sorry for streaking at your loved one’s funeral’ is going to cut it as an apology.”
“Lexi,” he growls. “We can’t stay in here, for fuck’s sake. They look like they’re going to be there for a while.”
I glare at him. “Don’t you get bossy with me! You’re the reason we’re in this situation.” I’m shivering, my teethchattering a mile a minute. “I refuse. I would rather pass out and die right now than leave the water.”
“That’s not an option. I’ll carry you out if I have to,” he threatens, his eyes narrowing.
I glare back at him, my own eyes narrowing to slits. This is how I become an internet meme, isn’t it? #FuneralFlashers.
But before I can argue further, he grabs my hand, hauls me into his arms like a sack of potatoes, and I let out a scream that could wake the dead. Which, ironically, draws even more attention to us. So much for discretion.
He shifts me around so I’m hanging onto his back like a koala while he powers towards the shore with strong strokes. I’m bobbing along behind him, my face smacking into his ripped back with every stroke.
Connor emerges from the water, muscled ass clenching as he strides ashore. I scamper gracelessly after him, cringing as everything bounces and jiggles violently. Lessgoddess mermaid emergingand moresea creature on its first land walk.
Now, everyone’s eyes are locked on us, except for the priest who’s still facing the congregation.
Jaws drop.
