“I would point out your farmer’s tan.”
“You—my what?” I glance at my arms and realize there is a line across each bicep, denoting where my T-shirt normally sits. My chest is also a few shades paler than my forearms. “How isthat attractive?” Unless it isn’t and Isla’s just being baldly honest about my good and bad characteristics.
“It means you are outside a lot but wearing a shirt, which means you are likely working. Probably something that involves manual labor, which is a fact supported by the muscles in your arms, chest, and”—Isla strolls around behind me—“back.” She returns to face me. “And because you have less sun exposure here”—her hands indicate my middle—“you are less likely to develop skin cancer in close proximity to your vital organs. Which reminds me.” She digs through a floppy bag hanging off her shoulder, coming out with a colorful tube. “Have you properly applied sunscreen? This one is reef safe. I’m aware we don’t have reefs in Lake Galen, but the aquatic life could be affected by chemicals.”
My mind struggles to keep up while also permanently recording everything she said about my body to memory.
“Finn?” Isla says my name, and all I want is for her to do it again.
“Hmm?”
“Do you need sunscreen?”
“Sure.”
She nods. “I do too.” Then, with no fanfare at all, Isla sets her drink on the dock, drops her bag beside it, and strips off her sundress, leaving her in a polka-dot two-piece fit for a pinup model.
“That suit is perfect on you,” I blurt before realizing my mouth is moving.
“Good. Just like that. Maybe louder next time.”
At Isla’s comments, I remember that she asked for compliments.
Then, she starts to apply sunscreen to herself, and the precise movements should not turn me on as much as they do. But that’s what this woman does to me.
“I am not flexible enough to evenly apply it on my back. Will you help me?” Isla extends the sunscreen, and she might as well be offering me a gold bar with the way my hands reach to eagerly snatch the thing.
When Isla turns around, I almost swallow my tongue. But, God, the way the suit cups her ass should be illegal.
You’ve seen her in a swimsuit before. Get yourself together.
Growing up, I spent plenty of time swimming at this house with the MacNamaras. Isla often joined, with her being a close neighbor. I drooled over her then too. But now, she has a woman’s body. Fuller and softer.
And the normally standoffish woman is asking me to touch her.
I won’t mess it up.
Affecting as much detachment as I can muster, I coat my palms with the white lotion and start on her shoulders. Warm under my touch, Isla’s muscles relax with each pass of my hands.
I’m doing her a favor as a friend, I remind myself as I work to cover lower.Keeping her safe in the hot sun.
That’s the thought that helps me finish the task with determination rather than lust. Keeping Isla safe. I never want her hurt again.
When I get the lowest exposed point, just above the high waist of her suit, my fingers feel the way her smooth skin turns rough in one area. The edge of a scar.
A stark reminder of why I am the last person who deserves to touch Isla.
“Do you need help?” Her voice makes me want to close my eyes, so I can listen to only her.
“Yes.”In so many ways.
Isla turns abruptly, grabbing the sunscreen and circling around to my back. There’s the unattractive squirting soundthe bottle makes and the slick noise of her rubbing her hands together.
Then, she’s touching me.
If only I had a railing or table to grip and brace myself. I’m worried my knees might give out.
Isla covers every inch from my shoulders to my hips, rubbing vigorously, pressing the protection into my skin. And of course, she’s thorough, sneaking her fingers under the edge of my waistband to coat the parts of me that might be exposed if the material shifts around.
