My bites must be aggressive because my dad asks, "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," I lie, cranky, groggy, and moody—a bad combination.
Molly enters the kitchen and pours herself some coffee.
"Good morning, Amelia. How did you sleep?"
"Fine, thank you."
Even though I'm not looking at them, I can sense their silent exchange. How they're having an entire conversation behind my back with their expressive eye contact.
"What are you doing today?"This small talk is going to be the death of me.
"Not sure. I might drown myself in the pool."
My dad slams down his newspaper. "Amelia, that's not funny."
"I'm not joking."
"Do you need any help unpacking?" Molly offers.
"No thanks. I'm okay—"
And out of nowhere, as if he appeared in a puff of smoke, a shirtless male model staggers into our kitchen.
Instead of calling 9-1-1, because this half-naked assailant is most definitely about to rob us of our belongings, Molly gives him a pat on the back and sings, "Good morning."
"Morning." My dad raises his coffee as a greeting, not even slightly worried this intruder may hogtie us.
Did they adopt someone while I was away? Host a foreign exchange student? Because this can't be—
My spoon clatters in the cereal bowl. "Theo?"
My gaze falls right to his bare stomach, which now features well-defined abdominal muscles. I can't tell if he's flexing on purpose or if he's naturally chiseled even at rest, butwow.
My eyes gradually wander up his torso, and for fuck's sake, I've never seen such a flawless chest in all my life. His perfectly formed pecs are blessed with a light covering of golden-brown hair that mirrors the happy trail beginning at his belly button and disappearing beneath his boxer shorts, which are hanging dangerously low. The coveted V near his hips is on full display, and I'm starstruck at seeing it up close.
I'm terrified to get a good look at his upper half, because if it's anything like his southern region, I'm fucked.
And goddamn it, he's perfect. No more Coke-bottle glasses. The baby fat that clung to his face has melted away, revealing cheekbones you'd show a plastic surgeon to replicate. And the acne problem? What acne problem? A week's worth of stubble looks mighty fine on him, and I have to close my mouth in case I start drooling. I don't know if his blue eyes have always been that intoxicating or if his glasses did a good job of hiding them, but I'm enamored. They've already cast a spell. I see the Pacific Ocean in his gaze, white-capped waves bursting from his irises outward. I want to swim in them and drown.
He was a boy when we left, and now I'm looking at a man—a goddamn Avenger with taut muscles in places I didn't even know existed. Like near his ribs. Why am I willing to give up my movie collection so I can run my fingers along his obliques?
I'm looking at Chris Hemsworth, circaThor: Ragnarok.
And when we left for college, he was Thor, circaAvengers: Endgame, a loner who played video games and didn't give a shit about his appearance.
He probably built houses with his bare hands and cleaned the village's clothes on those washboard abs. The gleam in his white teeth could have been the spark to ignite campfires. He has a healthy tan, and I cannot stop looking at the freckles on his shoulders. He's melting the panties off my ass, and I desperately need those to stay on right now. Don't I hate his guts? Yes, yes I do.
"Amelia," Molly begins. "Has it really been that long?"
"Umm, yeah." Ten years, if anyone's counting.
Theo seems to be looking right through me, obviously not sizing me up as I did to him. I must repulse him with my unwashed hair and bare face.
"My baby has grown up! But honey, put some clothes on. I know you're used to working outside in the heat, but you need to cover up."
"Yeah," my dad agrees, cradling his belly with his hands. "You're making me look bad."
