Lexie waves off my concern. “It’ll be fun. It’s not like they’re going to make us do real Olympic sports.”
“Tell that to the tequila sloshing around in my gut.” I kick off my flip-flops and my feet sink into the warm sand, the fine white granules slipping between my toes.
“Just think of this as the first step toward your wild night in paradise,” Kayla suggests, slinging an arm around my shoulders.
“More like my wild night in a foreign hospital.”
I press my lips together and study the other teams.
There are a few middle-aged foursomes who look like they spent the entire day drinking in the sun, a group of tweens in that awkward stage where your limbs are too long for your body, and a trio of college-aged guys in bright swim trunks and backward hats. They’re kind of cute if you’re into beefy guys who will probably kick your ass at beach games.
At least it’ll be over quickly.
I smile, buoyed by the thought.
“Each team will need two players for this first event,” Camila tells us, holding up two fingers. Smart woman. Half of her contestants appear to be blitzed out of their minds. “You will stand arm’s length apart and when I blow the whistle, you’re going to toss a water balloon back and forth, taking one step backward with each successful catch. If you drop your balloon, or it breaks, you’re out. The last team standing will earn one point.”
“Too easy.” Lexie makes a show of buffing her nails on her tank top. “If all the games are this simple, they might as well give us the medals now because we’ve got this in the bag.”
“You shouldn’t count your geese before they hatch.”
The warning comes from one of the guys on the next team, and we turn in unison to stare at him. He’s a big dude, well over six feet tall, with thick biceps and sunglasses so dark it’s impossible to guess his eye color. Everything about him screams gym bro from his freakishly large size to his waxed chest, which is on full display in his unbuttoned shirt.
“It’s chickens,” Kayla shoots back, planting a hand on her hip and giving him a slow once-over.
“Who’re you calling a chicken?” he demands, brows pulled low.
The guy on his left laughs, low and deep, the sound reverberating in his chest. “Relax, Jones. The phrase is ‘Don’t count your chickens before they hatch.’”
“That doesn’t make sense.” Gym Bro crosses his arms, going on the defensive as he turns to his buddy, whose navy swim trunks are covered in pink flamingos. “Why would you count chickens? What about the golden eggs?”
Golden eggs?From the sound of it, I’m not the only one who hit happy hour a little too hard. I giggle—the sound escaping before I can stop it—and slap a hand over my mouth.
Flamingo Boy claps his buddy on the back, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Wrong story.”
“Whatever.” Gym Bro rolls his shoulders. “You can count all the eggs you want, but we’re going to win this thing.”
I’m about to agree when I notice the third member of their team clinging to the trunk of a palm tree like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.
I jerk my chin in his direction. “Y’all’s friend looks like he could use some water.”
Flamingo Boy heaves a beleaguered sigh, but his clear blue eyes dance with laughter, and for an instant, it’s like we’re sharing a private joke. “Someday he’ll learn to pace himself, but today is not that day.”
A slow smile spreads over his face, revealing the world’s most lickable dimples. They’re perfectly symmetrical, framing his full lips like the work of art they are. The one on the left is carved just a tiny bit deeper, but the imperfection—if you can call it that—makes him even more beautiful.
Which is probably not a thought I should be having.
Freaking tequila.
Right. Blame it on the alcohol. It can’t possibly be the fact that you’re stressed out, burned out, and most likely sexually repressed.
I am not sexually repressed. I have orgasms. Lots of them.
With a machine.
Who doesn’t? It’s the twenty-first century, after all. I don’t have to bang every cute guy I see to get pleasure.
Focus, Ava. There’s a gorgeous man smiling at you. Say something witty.
