“They’re notoriously grumpy. I can’t believe they’d say yes.”
“It took some convincing. I had to explain that I’m on a rather meager budget but very much wish to take a very deserving, special lady out.”
I blush, glad he’s in front of me right now so he can’t see how starved I am for compliments. “And that worked?” I ask as we turn onto a paved path that runs alongside the road.
“Only after I told them who the special lady was.”
We ride for almost an hour, but I’m not tired in the least, because I’m not really doing much of the work. Instead, I just enjoy the view. To the left, there is a dense jungle. To my right, the ocean. And in front of me, the tightest buns on a man that I’ve ever seen up close. And I can stare freely because he doesn’t have eyes in the back of his head. Not that Ishouldstare at something I can’t have. It’s sort of torturous, like deciding to stand in front of a Cinnabon all day, breathing in that heavenly smell and watching the way the icing melts on the warm gooey bread that’s just been pulled out of the oven, but then not letting yourself eat even one measly bite. I could really use a bite of those Cinnabons…
Discipline, Brianna! Discipline, and maybe dig out your vibrator when you get home.
Trying to focus on something other than the hottie in front of me, I play tour guide, pointing out places of interest as we ride. Leo asks lots of questions about what it was like growing up on the island. He listens carefully, has surprisingly insightful responses, and comes out with witty remarks that have me in stitches from time to time. By the time we’ve reached our destination—Hidden Beach—my face hurts from smiling, and my body is buzzing with lusty thoughts for which I cannot find the shutoff valve.
The small beach, which sits on the east side of the island, is nearly empty, except for a family on the far side having a picnic, and a man walking his dog. It’s sort of a secret spot, not known to tourists. The locals who know about it rarely come this time of year, because the surfing is better on the southwest side of the island.
We stop at a spot with a fire pit surrounded on three sides by large tree trunks that have been laid down to use as benches. Leo de-bikes, as he calls it, and holds it still while I get off. The tide is high now, and the waves crash as they come in. The sun is low in the sky, exchanging some of the intense heat of midday for a soft, calm warmth.
“We used to come here all the time when I was growing up. Every Sunday for a picnic.”
“Really? That sounds nice.”
“It was. There’s a cave down the beach that my sister and I used to hide in when it was time to go home. We used to say we’d live in it together when we grew up.” My smile fades as the weekend’s events come crashing back on me. “It’s funny, the things kids believe to be possible.”
“Anything and everything.”
“You don’t seem to have lost that yet,” I say. His face darkens slightly, so I quickly add, “That wasn’t an insult. I think it’s nice.”
“Nice, maybe. Smart, no.”
“You know how to be a boring adult when you have to.”
“Yes, but I hate it,” Leo says with a grin. He opens his backpack, takes out two large bottles of water, hands me one, and opens his before holding it up to mine for a toast. “To the Crankshafts.”
“Cruickshanks.”
“Righto. Them, too.”
I have a long pull on my water, exhilarated as the cool liquid slides down my throat. When I lower the bottle, he’s watching me in a way that both pleases and alarms me.
“What?” I ask, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “Is my hair all crazy from the wind?”
Shaking his head, he says, “Nope. Quite the opposite.” He glances down at my mouth for a second, then back into my eyes again. “It’s just nice to see you happy.”
“Oh, good. Because I’d hate to have crazy hair,” I say, trying to deflect the gooey feeling inside from havingthisman enjoy anything about me at all.
He pulls a towel out of his bag, fans it out, and puts it down on the sand. “You relax. I’ll go in search of firewood.”
“We’re having a campfire?”
“Well, we shouldn’t eat the hot dogs cold, should we?”
“You know how to make hot dogs?”
“My parents sent me to summer camp in the US when I was fourteen. I learned all sorts of great things there,” he says with a smile that dares me to ask what else he learned. He winks, turns toward the trees lining the sand, and starts toward them.
“Really?” I ask, following him up the bank.
“Yes, really. A camp in the Yellowstone Mountains. My father thought it would toughen me up to live in the wilderness for a few weeks.”
