“I can’t help it. You swam in Lake Michigan.” Dex shuddered, flexing his hands against the wheel. In the back seat, Phoebe dozed, face tinged pink from the sun. “We should stop at an ER to get you guys tested.”
“Fuck off,” I said with a laugh. He glanced over and I saw my own grin in his Ray-Bans before I noticed the corner of his mouth tipping upward. “God forbid you enjoy a day at the beach.”
“Not a beach.”
“It wasn’t the ocean, but it was a beach.”
“It wasn’t the ocean and, therefore, shouldn’t count as a beach.”
“Sand, sky, water.”
“That’s the criteria to qualify as a beach in Violet-land?”
“Yes, dick, it is.” I laughed again, brushing a knuckle against my aching cheek. The smiling was out of control. “Would you swim at a Dex-land qualified beach?”
“Depends,” he answered with only a beat’s hesitation. I shifted in my seat, facing him. Three and a half hours in a car, plus a pit stop at the beach, and his shirt remained perfectly pressed, though his stubble was a bit more pronounced than his typical five o’clock shadow. I decided it was a good length on him, and, just for a second, I let myself imagine what it would feel like to drag my hands across it. My fingernails. My lips.
Nope. Second over.
“On?” I pressed. He brushed his index finger over his top lip and I watched, mesmerized. Damn those hands.
“Rip currents.”
“Rip currents?” I tilted my head. “That’s… logical. I guess.”
“It is logical,” he said decisively. I narrowed my eyes, watching him rub his lip once more before returning his hand to the wheel.
“You can swim, right? I mean, you swam in the hotel pool with Phoebe, so I know you can. But she did say you almost drowned when you were a kid.”
He turned sharply toward me. “She told you that?”
“It was a weird night. We watched our dad’s favorite movie,” I said. His fingers drummed against the wheel and he turned his attention to the road.
“I can swim,” he muttered. “I’ve even been known to enjoy a day at the beach.”
I pressed my lips together, my cheeks feeling like they might split open if I let myself smile again. “I can’t imagine you at the beach.”
“You literally—” He cut himself off with a cough.
I let out a sharp laugh, pointing in his face. “Ha! So you admit it’s a beach!”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You were totally going to say it.”
“I like the beach,” he said casually, sidestepping his wrongness. Didn’t matter. I’d be riding this high for the rest of the day. “I grew up near the beach.”
He so rarely volunteered information about himself, I took a solid ten seconds to map out a response. “You did?” I needed to know more. Everything, even. “Us too. Where did you grow up?”
“Uh.” He glanced at me quickly, perhaps having revealed this fact unwittingly. “Mattapoisett.”
“Warwick,” I said, pointing to myself. “Not too far, actually.”
“No. Not too far.” He adjusted his grip on the wheel, casting me a sidelong glance. “Why Boston, then? The Harbor is about as much a beach as Lake Michigan.”
“I met a guy.”
“Ah.”
