Like lightning, Beau snatches the phone out of my back pocket and tosses it behind him in the sand.
“What are—” I cut myself off as he tosses his phone after mine, because I think I know where this is going.
I start running, but I don’t get more than ten feet before he’s got me by the waist, and giggles such as I’ve never heard start coming out of my mouth. I push his hand away, and just when I’ve got escape at my fingertips, both of his arms wrap around my stomach. He lifts me up until my feet are well above the water, then pulls us backward toward the waves. I kick my feet and try to pry his hands from my waist, but the man has the strength of an ox. His balance, however, starts to suffer the deeper we get.
“Beauregarde Palmer!” I yell. “Don’t even think about fal?—”
My next words are swallowed as we disappear into the waves. Beau’s still got one arm around me as we emerge.
“You,” I say, gasping for breath as I wipe water from my eyes, “are the worst.”
“Did you call me Beauregarde?” he asks, water dripping into his grin. Oh, to be a man and emerge from an unexpected dip in the water looking like a tall glass of water instead of wet-dog-meets-emo-kid-who-slept-in-her-makeup.
“You deserved it,” I say, holding on to him as a wave pushes against us.
“You started it,” he says, his gaze fixed on me in a way that makes it extra hard to catch my breath.
“You provoked me.”
“We can argue like this all night, GG.”
“Or…” I use the force of the next wave to jump up, putting my hands on Beau’s head, and pushing down as hard as I can. I might as well push down on an anvil. But after a couple seconds, Beau surrenders, letting himself collapse under my pressure. Knowing I’ll be going down with him, I push away, but he grabs my legs, pulling them around him, and we go under together.
When we emerge, his hands are gripping the underside of my thighs, and my ankles are crossed behind him.
“You’re here,” he says, looking up at me.
“Yeah,” I say on a laugh, because I don’t get why he’s pointing out the obvious. But something about the way he says it sends my heart into a tailspin.
He blinks to avoid the saltwater dripping into his eyes. He could just let me down and free his hands up, but I use the base of my palms to wipe the water on his forehead to the side. He watches me while I do it, and once I’m done, I let my arms lower to rest on his shoulders.
His gaze stays fixed on me. “The other night. When I asked you why I couldn’t kiss you…you said it was because you were leaving. But you didn’t leave. You’re here.”
Another wave pushes against us, but he keeps us steady, and my eyes flit to his lips. I can almostremember what they taste like. Almost.
I’d really like another shot at them.
My gaze creeps back to his eyes watching me. Our faces are so much closer now—I must’ve unintentionally done it while I was staring at his mouth. Can it be considered unintentional when every thought going through my head is about kissing him?
The pull to him is even stronger this near, and my lips slowly and instinctively migrate toward his.
I can sense his lips even though I can’t feel him, and the press of his fingers into my thighs tightens. I close my eyes.
“But you also hate me,” he whispers, his breath sweet from the ice cream.
I swallow and nod, hardly able to hear him over my lips begging me to close the final gap.
His grip on my thighs loosens, and slowly, he lowers me until my feet touch the sand and my eyes open.
He steps back, and it’s clear: there will be no kiss. Because I hate Beau.
Iwantto hate him. So, so much. But I don’t. Not even a little.
“What happened to our ice cream cones?” he asks casually as if the last two minutes never happened.
“No idea,” I say, trying to brush it off as easily as he does.
That’s Beau, though. He’s all about fun. Nothing fazes him. He seems to thoroughly enjoy his job because of it, but I have to wonder, is anything a big deal to him?
