It was easier to worry about that kind of what-if than ask herself what she was doing. Having a light bulb moment was one thing; following through was a lot scarier. Before Libby could convince herself to retreat—back to the people and music and bottling up her embarrassingly huge crush on Jefferson—the car arrived.
He opened the door for her, a questioning look on his face.
Which would she regret more: Going for it or playing it safe? If she only had this one chance, a single evening to be alone with Jefferson, the choice was clear.
Let the chips fall where they may.
The house was locked. Rather than explaining why she didn’t have access to the place where she supposedly lived, Libby led Jefferson through the side yard as if that had been her destination all along.
“Hot tub?” she asked, hoping it sounded more confident than she felt.
Their bathing suits were hanging from a drying line behind the shower. Without waiting for an answer, Libby grabbed hers and stepped into the cabana to change. She kept on the lei they’d given her at the luau, because it was pretty and smelled good and she needed the ego boost. When she came out in her bikini, Jefferson was holding his swim trunks.
“I’ll meet you over there.” She nodded in the direction of the man-made lagoon, one end of which curved into a roughly circular whirlpool.
The faux-lava-rock surround felt like actual pumice, smooth without being slippery. She picked her way across and then lowered herself into the bubbling water. Okay, that felt amazing. Maybe the hot tub was a stroke of genius. Libby willed her muscles to relax. She could do this. Act like a normal, functional adult.
And then Jefferson walked up, and she stared as if she’d never seen a man’s chest before. She remembered that first day on the beach, when seeing him with his jeans rolled up made her all wobbly inside. It was strange how the same thing—an ankle, the shape of a calf muscle—could mean something completely different, depending on the person. Libby was pretty sure she’d never looked at another guy’s leg hair and thought,Hot damn, that’s sexy.
“How’s the water?”
“Hot.” She sounded weirdly emphatic, like it might be burning off her top layer of skin, but she wasn’t really thinking about the temperature.
“No torpedoes?” Jefferson dipped a foot in, feeling for the ledge with his toes.
“What?” She was a little distracted by the flexing of his arm muscles as he slowly submerged himself to the shoulders.
“Special features. Robot sharks. Geysers. Like the shower,” he added, when she continued to look at him blankly.
“Just me.”Devouring you with my eyes.Libby had moved to the other side to give him room, so they were sitting opposite each other, the twelve and six on a clock face. She stretched a leg out, wondering if he was close enough to touch.
He jumped when her foot made contact with his shin.
“Sorry,” Libby said, more out of reflex than because she meant it. Seduction game: on point. She should have practiced on a doll first.
Jefferson shifted a few inches to the side. Maybe he thoughthe’d be safe there, although this being a round hot tub, he was closer than before. He frowned at the rippling surface of the water. “So it’s not a real marriage.”
It wasn’t quite a question, but she could tell he needed to hear her say it, one more time.
“Really, really not real. Purely practical. He wanted a green card for business reasons, and I—”You what, Libby? She thought furiously.Were willing to whore yourself out for a fancy house?“Have U.S. citizenship. But I promise, I am deeply single, in all the ways that matter. Single like… a bicycle with one wheel.”
Now his mouth relaxed. “You’re single like a unicycle?”
“Yes. And it doesn’t get much more single than that. In the area of wheeled transportation.”
“Is that right?” He reached for her as he spoke, hand sliding down the wet skin of her arm until it closed lightly around her wrist, squeezing once before continuing on to trace the contours of her palm.
The sensation was just shy of ticklish. Libby’s fingers clamped onto Jefferson’s like a Venus fly trap, a half involuntary movement. They stayed with their arms stretched between them, like he knew she needed a minute to adjust to the sensation of holding his hand for the first time. Or maybe it felt momentous to him too.
“Hi.” She raised and lowered her arm like they were shaking hands. “I’m Libby.”
“Jefferson.” He didn’t let go. “Have I seen you somewhere before?”
“We ran into each other on the beach. It’s definitely not because a giant nude portrait of me exists.”
“And I have never been in the tabloids.” He shifted closer. “You’re the girl with the crackers.”
She nodded, taking another step toward him. “You’re the guy with the camera.”
