“Sure,” he says easily. Like he’s unzipped her a hundred times before.
I make the mistake of watching as his hands settle on her back. He tugs the zipper down, murmuring something too low for me to catch.
I drop my eyes, forcing myself to turn away, and focus intently on brushing nonexistent sand off my board.
I can’t watch this. Ican’t.
Before today, the blonde from the ice bath was a mythical sex goddess I could hate from a safe emotional distance.
Now she’s here, real and warm and patient, teaching me to surf while probably thinking about all the athletic things she’s going to do with Patrick later. All the positions I’ll never be flexible enough for.
The jealousy wedges itself beneath my ribs and stays there, throbbing.
Fee was right. I’m too soft for someone like him. Too easily bruised.
Every morning, I’ve been at my window with those stupid binoculars. Half of me praying he’d appear. The other half terrified he would.
Deep down, Iknewif I saw him with her again, it would break me.
Now it’s happening right here in real time. With wetsuits.
“Georgie?”
His voice cuts through the humming fog in my head.
Shit.
I spin around like I’ve onlyjustnoticed him. “Oh! Hi, Patrick.”
He frowns, eyes flicking over the board, the wetsuit, me. “You’re taking a surf lesson?”
No. I’m just wearing rubber for the fashion statement.
“Sure am,” I say through gritted teeth. “What brings you here?”
Like I don’t already know.
He pauses, looking at me warily. “Had to return a board I borrowed from the shop.”
Of course he did.
“You two know each other?” Maren asks, glancing between us.
Patrick’s shoulders stiffen. “Georgie and Fee work for the hotels.” He turns, acknowledging Fee. “Hi, Fee.”
“Hi, Mr. McLaren!” Fee chirps.
“What do you do at the hotels?” Maren asks, smiling easily as she glances between us. She lifts her long golden hair, twists it into a loose knot, and starts rubbing sunblock across her shoulders.
It’s such an innocent movement but somehow the movement is so sensual that it feels like we’re all watching her.
I’m a frumpy, damp sausage next to her—a sausage who has wandered onto the set of Baywatch by mistake.
“I’m the IT person,” I say flatly, a brittle edge in my voice. “They keep me locked in the server room and occasionally slide pizza under the door.”
Patrick’s brow tightens. I don’t usually default to snarkiness in front of him, but this isn’t usual. This ishorrible.
Fee chimes in, saving me from further self-destruction, “I’m a yoga instructor.”
