Now that she’d mentioned them, he was acutely aware of how sweaty and confined his feet felt.
“You should take them off,” she said, as if reading his mind.
Jefferson didn’t know whether it said more about her voice (low and a little throaty) or his life (short on excitement, at least until recently) that this was the most titillating suggestion he’d heard in months.
“Not to boss you around,” she added. “It’s just the sand gets in them, and you can’t wear slippers with socks.”
“Because of fashion?”
“And the toe divider.” She held up a battered red sandal.
“Ah. We call them flip-flops. Or thongs.” Unless that word had been given over entirely to stringy underwear? He was not going to ask.
“Take a load off,” she said, when he continued to stand stiffly on the sand.
“You don’t mind?”
“Pretty sure this beach is big enough for the two of us. I don’t really believe in private beaches anyway. How do you own the ocean? These exact grains of sand? Good luck with that.”
He smiled as he settled beside her, not so close that she’d feel like she had to talk to him, but not so far that it would shut the door on further conversation. Also this way he could strip off his socks at a safe distance.
When neither of them spoke, other sounds filled the air. The whoosh of the surf tugged at Jefferson’s pulse, slowing his breathing to match the rhythmic rise and fall. He watched the fizzing wake mark the limit of each wave’s reach, rushing across the sand before being sucked back to sea. The beach was striped in rippled bands, from dry to damp to drenched. The high-water line seemed clearly defined, until a random waveskidded right past it, forcing him to lift his feet to keep them from getting wet.
“Aw, go on. You can’t come all this way and not at least dip your toes in.” Standing, she brushed sand off the back of her shorts as she moved toward the water, beckoning Jefferson to follow.
Maybe there was something to this act-like-a-different-person-on-vacation idea. Could Jefferson become the kind of guy who frolicked through the surf in slow motion with a beautiful stranger? He rolled up the bottoms of his jeans, ready to find out.
“You live someplace cold?” she guessed, and he could tell she’d been checking out his legs. Or at least his spring-in-Wyoming tan.
“Very.”
“I’ve never seen snow. In real life. I’ve only been to the mainland once, and we got off the plane and went straight to Disney. My mom decided my childhood wouldn’t be complete without Space Mountain. ‘What are credit cards for, sweetie?’” She relayed the last part in a breezy falsetto. Then her brain seemed to catch up with her words and she frowned at the sand, clearly embarrassed. Jefferson couldn’t tell her not to worry—that he liked her honesty—so he pretended not to notice.
“It’s a little like this,” he said, as his feet shifted in the sand, slipping backward with each step. “Snow. Except it doesn’t hold you up. Unless you’re on skis. And it’s a lot colder. Obviously.” Was he babbling? It was possible he’d spent too much time around Hildy.
“Speaking of cold, are you ready?”
He watched the foaming edge of the water surge toward them and then away again, hissing as it disappeared. It was at least seventy-five degrees and sunny, high summer conditions where he was from. “I think I can handle it.”
“Okay. On three.” Her eyes locked on his as she counted down, one finger at a time.
Jefferson was so busy watching her face he was a beat behind when she darted forward, splashing in up to her shins. It took another second for his brain to process the sensation of a thousand ice knives stabbing his lower legs. Gasping, he hobbled back onto dry sand, bending down to make sure his feet were still attached.
“People swim in that?”
“You get used to it. It’s better to go for it. Little-by-little will kill you.”
He frowned at the waves cresting farther offshore. “What happens when you run into one of those?”
“Either you catch a ride or dive under and let it wash over you.”
“I’m game if you are.” Vacation Jefferson was off his rocker. He wasn’t mentally or physically prepared for an ice bath in churning seas, and definitely didn’t have the right gear. But apparently his inner twelve-year-old would do anything to impress a girl. Or at least this one.
Her laughter was a shot of adrenaline to his heart. “Wait, are you serious? In your jeans?”
He wasn’t sure whether she was worried he was about to strip, or that he might drown in waterlogged denim. “I hadn’t thought that far,” he admitted. “But I’m not wearing—” Jefferson broke off, trying to think of a way to reassure her without being crude.
“Underwear?” she whispered, like maybe he’d forgotten the word.
