“Then you won’t forget to use sunscreen religiously as well.”
With a grunt that may or may not be agreement, he squirts out a good dollop, hands me the bottle to hold, then proceeds to rub it on his arms. Up until now, I’ve managed not to look too closely at his body. No sense in risking being caught gaping. But I can’t ignore it now.
His arms are works of art: baked brown by the sun, corded and defined, with rocklike biceps that bunch and shift when he moves. August is leaner than March; he doesn’t need the bulk that his younger brother does. But the Lucks have the genetics of the gods, as far as I can tell. Every one of them has strong, well-toned bodies that would take me hours of working out a day to achieve. August is no exception. There’s a reason images of his torso went viral leading up to his draft.
Thankfully, he leaves his T-shirt on and only focuses on his arms and neck. He catches me looking, and waggles his brows. “You sure you wouldn’t want to put this on for me—”
“Nope.”
“I might miss a spot or two.”
“Your hands are big enough to catch all outlying territory.”
A soft laugh rumbles in his chest. “Cut it with the sexy talk, Pen. I can’t take much more of it.”
Sternly, I hand him the bottle again so he can get some sunscreen for his face. He does an admirable job of covering himself, but there’s a white streak on each side of his nose where it rises up to his eyes. Since he’s rubbing his face hard with frowning determination, I know he doesn’t realize this. Something in me softens.
Tossing the capped sunscreen back in the truck, I step up to him. Immediately, August stills, his hands falling to his sides as he watches me with quiet eyes. So still, as though I might bolt if he makes a sudden move. I just might.
My voice comes out too breathy. “Here.” Not entirely steady, I cup his face between my hands. Instantly, his lids lower, his head falling forward so I can reach him easier. With the blunt edge of my thumbs, I smooth out the sunscreen.
A gull cries overhead. In the distance comes the faint crash and rush of the waves, and the bright quick laugh of a child. But here, standing in the lee of August’s long body, it’s so quiet the agitated rhythm of our exhalations sound like thunder. My belly quivers as I stroke my thumbs over the high crests of his cheekbones.
Somehow, I’ve migrated closer, into the warm circle of his arms. Somehow, his hands have drifted back to my waist, settling there heavy and secure. We share a breath, and my knees weaken. I want to rest on his wide chest, melt into him.
August’s grip tightens ever so slightly. A whip of heat licks along the backs of my thighs, and tightens my lower belly. His forehead rests against mine.
Control. I need to regain it. My hands fist, and I lower them against my chest where my heart pounds out of control. He sees the withdrawal and takes a deep breath before raising his gaze to mine; pewter skies outlined with inky lashes.
“I didn’t expect you to be this potent, Pen. It’s doing my head in.”
The whispered confession has my breath hitching. Potent? He’s looking at me with those storm cloud eyes, as if he’s halfway to angry, halfway to... what? It can’t be lust. It can’t be. Not from him. Teasing is one thing.
My fists tighten. “I’m just . . . me.”
“Yeah, you are,” he says, a smile in his voice. When I gape up at him inslightpanic, he gives me a small squeeze with the tips of his fingers then sets me back. “Eventually you’ll see it, Penelope Morrow.”
“See what?”
With a wry shake of his head, he locks up the car. “See yourself the way I do.”
I’m too chicken to ask for further clarification. Besides, I have a feeling he wouldn’t give me a straight answer anyway.
“Come on, then.” He holds out a hand. “Let’s take a walk and plan our strategy.”
August
I almost kissed her. It was a near thing. And it would have been a mistake. Pen isn’t ready for that from me. She’ll bolt or explain it away—it was the heat of the moment, I didn’t realize what I was doing, or some similar nonsense.
Fact is, yes, the heat of the moment was almost too much to restrain me. But no, I’d have known exactly what I was doing. I’ve been trying to keep from kissing Penelope since I saw her in my parents’ doorway, outlined by the pouring rain and gaping up at me like I was a mirage.
Maybe this is a dream: frogs in top hats, chicken dances on tables, and Penelope Morrow calling me Pickle with a wide smile on her perfect lips.
Maybe I took a hard hit and I’m in a coma.
The thought slides down my spine like wet ice. I take a short breath and blow it out hard. But I’m still unsettled. Somehow,my hand finds Pen’s. She takes a misstep like she’s surprised, but doesn’t pull away, and our fingers thread.
This is real. Nothing in my imagination would come up with the sense of calm and rightness that holding Pen’s hand gives me. I wouldn’t have thought it possible. Not to this extent. I’m holding hands with a woman—something I’ve always considered a cliché and an unnecessary activity—and it feelsgood. In direct opposition of my earlier stance, it feelsnecessary.
