“Thank you.”
He waits a moment before continuing. “You said you only had one big argument with Nate. What was it about?”
“He wanted me to take his name.”
He snorts. “You would never.”
“Never,” I agree. “I thought he was fine with it, but then he signed me up for a gym membership under the name Francesca Bacon. Frankie Bacon. Can you imagine?”
“I’d prefer not to.” His expression darkens.
“I was furious when we checked into the resort and Nate had made the booking under Mr.and Mrs.Bacon.”
“I noticed.”
When he signed me up for the gym using his last name, I panicked. It felt like I was being dragged under.
“I think what really bothered me is that the idea of belonging to him felt oppressive,” I tell George.
“Do you think that’s about Nate or marriage in general?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t want to be absorbed by another person, but maybe I wouldn’t mind belonging to someone if they belonged to me, too. If we belonged to each other as well as to ourselves.”
“An equal belonging.”
“Yeah, exactly. I think I could be into that.”
George hums. “I think I’d be into that, too.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Two bubblegum-pink vans with surfing logos on their sides pull into the parking lot, and we wander over to where they’re parked. The rear doors on one are open to reveal a dozen turquoise surfboards stacked, fin side up. Four women are hauling large plastic containers of gear from the other.
Soon there’s a group of us assembled, and we’re given wet suits, booties, and pink Billabong shirts and instructed to change.
“How do you have that on already?” I ask George as I struggle to tug the wet suit up over my hips. “How did you do up the zipper?” We’ve gone back to the car so we can leave our clothes and shoes inside. George looks like he’s been surfing all his life, whereas I look like a sausage half crammed into its casing.
He peers down at himself, and his hair flops forward. Even his curls seem beachy. “It wasn’t complicated.”
I begin hopping up and down, yanking at the neoprene until finally, finally, I hike the thing to my waist. I let out a whoopand look at George, holding up my palm for a high five, but he’s glaring at my chest. I’m wearing the most practical bikini I own. It’s black, one-shouldered, and it stays in place when I move. But I have been jumping about like a trampolinist, and it’s not exactly supportive. I pull up the top of the wet suit and jam my arms in the sleeves, then reach for the zipper. I manage to get it to my waist, but then it snags. I curse. I’m already sweating.
Meanwhile, George has effortlessly slid on his booties. He’s all ready to go, and he’s watching me contort and twist to get some leverage on the zipper.
“Shut up,” I say when I catch the expression on his face.
“I didn’t say a word.”
“You should be offering your assistance,” I say. “Like a gentleman.”
He responds with a sly grin. “Last I heard, I was a rake.”
“Right now, you’re more like a scoundrel.”
He laughs, takes a step closer, and bows at the waist. “May I offer you some assistance, Ms.Gardiner?”
“Ha.”
He makes a spinning motion with his index finger, and I turn away from him. I feel the heat of his body just before he sweeps my hair over my shoulder. And then he sets one hand on my hip and tugs the zipper with the other. As he pulls, his knuckles graze my spine. I shut my eyes as his touch travels from the small of my back to up between my shoulder blades. I think of him behind me this morning and imagine leaning into him now. An almost feline mewl leaves my lips—a sound I’ve never made before. I freeze, and George’s hand pauses at the nape of my neck. I feel him lean close.
