The accusatory tone of that question shut me right down. “No, I was just wondering?—”
“For guest rooms we’ll source during the year if necessary, but for staff, we stitch them. The nets are tailormade in Nairobi. We don’t order them and have them delivered the next day, you know? This isn’t America.”
Okey dokey.I backed right off.
“Tristan?” I call as I approach our cottage to make sure I’m alone. No answer. I kick off my sandals, rinse my feet in the foot basin, and walk inside. Someone has cleaned the room, and the place looks immaculate. Chances of privacy here? Sub-zero. I can be a bit OCD when it comes to clean and neat rooms, but a pair of discarded shoes and a bra hooked over the back of the chair would be welcome right now. Anything to provide that baseline home-comfort look over this feeling of constantly being watched and cleaned up after.
I toss the tube of anti-itch ointment I got from the hotel’s boutique onto the sofa, out of habit check my phone where I left it on my nightstand for messages, roll my eyes at the zero-internet situation, and continue to strip all the way to the shower where I open the faucet. The cool water is a soothing balm, and I drop my head back with a moan.
The guest rooms have glass-rimmed infinity plunge pools; we have the ocean and a cold shower. Thank God. And at some point, I’ll take a bath in that tub that’s made for two. I stand under the spray for too long, and then remind myself,desalination takes time. Ugh.
I step out of the shower, feeling loads better, if still woozy and tired with dragging jet lag that won’t give up. My headache has eased. It’s easy to dehydrate here, but guzzling a liter of water over lunch seems to have sorted me out. I don’t bother to dry off, but instead knot a towel above my boobs and walk into the bedroom. The first thing I see is that my trail of clothes has been picked up, and the bits and pieces are hanging neatly over the back of the sofa. Now that’sextra.
But then I spot long legs stretched out on the bed—long, muscular legs that end in feet I’ve come to love because they’re sexy.
Tristan. A soft groan slips from my lips before I can stop it.
“Babes.” He sounds halfway asleep already. He can’t see me from where I’m standing in the alcove that leads to the dressing area and bathroom.
“Are you decent?” The last thing I need is to walk in on Tristan naked or getting down tomanbusiness.
“Yup. Just taking a nap.”
“Okay.”So not okay.My suitcase, still unpacked, is on the floor, the lid closed but with garments spilling out the sides. “Don’t mind me.”
I tiptoe over to my suitcase, overly conscious that I’m naked underneath the towel. My heart rate ticks up. Tristan has seen me in a bikini, which is technically less than this, but only a towel is different. It’s a flailing grip away from being naked.
I don’t look in his direction but drop to my haunches to rummage through my clothes. I’m not getting back into a uniform until four when I need to check in with Miriam again. I dig out a swimsuit cover-up, which is the coolest piece I have, plus some fresh underwear. It’ll have to do. I get up slowly, making sure the towel covers my butt and is still fitting tight around my boobs. My breathing is slow now—I can feel Tristan’s eyes on me.
All I want to do is rush back to the bathroom to get dressed, but I look up to find him staring at me. He might be half asleep, but his eyes are taking in everything. For a moment, I’m almost hypnotized as his gaze roams over my body, setting my blood on fire. He’s looked at me like that once before.
“Is that a blush or a sunburn, babes?”
With a swallow, I glance at my bare shoulders, which were exposed in the sleeveless shirt, only to see lobster-red skin. “Oh God.” We spent time walking in the sun, and it’s a bitch here.
“Your face is red too,” he says softly.
That would be a blush. My moisturizer has an SPF 50 sunscreen. I’ll have to spread it everywhere.
“Where else did you burn, hmm?”
Is he daring me to drop the towel so he can have a full inspection of my body?
I suck in a slow breath. “It’s okay. I’ll put on sunscreen.” I reach for the tube of anti-itch stuff on the sofa. “I’m not sure how good this it, but I got it for you at the boutique.”
Tristan sits up, and it’s as if the cottage shrinks. “Thanks. You’ll have to help me on my back. Some of these bites have been driving me nuts with my wetsuit.”
“Sure. I’m going to get dressed.” I stalk back to the bathroom side of the room and hesitate before dropping the towel to the floor.Crap. Why am I fantasizing about Tristanwatchingme? Looking at me with that thirst in his eyes?
I get dressed and feel less exposed as I return to the bedroom. He hasn’t moved and is still lying on his back, eyes closed. “Tris?” If he’s sleeping, I’m not going to wake him.
“Still here. Barely.”
“Okay.”
He’s tossed the ointment onto my side of the bed, and it’s been opened and amply used. I kneel on the bed and reach for it. This is the most intimate situation we’ve been in. I breathe. He smells fresh, and his hair is still moist. “Where did you shower?”
“At the dive center. They have an indoor and outdoor shower there.”
