Chapter 6
Claire
I’m staring.
The sand is white-hot under my towel, fine as powdered sugar. Turquoise water stretches to the horizon, so bright it hurts to look at without sunglasses. A few palm trees lean over the resort’s tiki bar to my left, their fronds rattling in the breeze that does nothing to cut the humid air pressing against my skin.
I know I’m staring because I’ve read the same paragraph of this thriller three times and retained nothing. Hunter’s fifty feet down the beach throwing a football with Franklin and the groomsmen, and every time he stretches his arm up, his shoulders do this thing that makes my clinical detachment evaporate.
Sun-bronzed skin. Water still clinging to his chest from an earlier swim. The kind of muscle definition you get from actual labor, not gym equipment.
I force my eyes back to the page.
“You’re staring, Doc.”
My head snaps up. He’s standing right there, board shorts low on his hips, that slow smile already forming.
“I’m reading.” I was totally staring.
“I’m willing to bet you’ve been on the same page for ten minutes.” He drops onto the sand beside my chair, close enough that sand grits against my leg. He smells like coconut sunscreen layered over his woodsy scent as if Texas followed him to the Caribbean. “Want to swim?”
Me and him in the ocean? Wet? Bodies not fully covered in clothing?
“Come on, Claire.” He stands, extends his hand.
Every rational part of my brain says no. Stay here. Maintain distance. Remember all the reasons this is a terrible idea.
I take his hand. His palm is rough with calluses, the kind earned from gripping axe handles and chain pulls, not weight room equipment. The scar on his right palm presses against my skin.
The sand shifts under my feet as we wade in, shell fragments scraping my toes. The water is bath-warm at the shoreline, cooling degree by degree as we go deeper. Salt coats my lips, my tongue. I taste it with every breath. Sun glints off the surface like shattered glass.
He doesn’t let go even when we’re waist-deep, waves pushing at my ribs. My light green bikini top feels suddenly inadequate under his gaze.
“You look good in green.” His eyes drop, then drag back up. Deliberate. “Really good.”
“Hunter—people are watching.”
He pulls me close as a wave crashes around us. His arms in all their muscular glory feel great around me. When the water calms, I step back, sad to lose the comfort he brings.
“How’s your arm?”
He rotates his left shoulder. It’s been eight weeks, and he has nearly full range now, just the slightest compensation at the topof the movement. “Kapoor cleared me for light work. Should be back at the mill next week.”
“Good.” I track the motion automatically, the surgeon in me cataloging his recovery. “You’ve been consistent with PT.”
“Had motivation.” His thumb traces circles on my wrist. “Wanted to be ready for this weekend.”
A wave lifts us both. Our bodies bump together before the current pulls us apart. My pulse kicks.
“Ready for what?”
“This.” He steps closer, crowding me. His hand finds my hip underwater, its work-roughened palm sliding over my soft skin, his thumb pressing just above my bikini bottom. The roughness against my soft skin sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with the water temperature. “You. Whatever happens after tonight.”
“Maybe nothing’s happening after tonight.”
“Liar.” His other hand skims up my side, fingertips brushing the edge of my top. Water laps between us, warm and insistent. The only sounds are waves and my pulse hammering in my ears and his breathing, harsh and uneven. “You’ve been thinking about it since the fitting.”
He’s not wrong.
