Page 20 of Hula Girl

“Definitely too much tequila,” I whisper hoarsely.

“I’ve got some coconut water right here for you,” he says, amusement in his voice. “Sit up a little and drink it down. You’ll be glad you did.”

I do as he says, barely opening my eyes and wondering if he’s doing this to get me to leave. He probably has to get on with his day and hadn’t bargained on the tourist still in his bed.

“Good,” he tells me when I’ve had the last of the coconut water. “Go back to sleep, honey. I’m going to catch some waves. I’ll be back in a bit.”

He presses a kiss to my lips and is gone before I can muster a response. I drift off to sleep once more, taking refuge in this stranger’s bed whether he likes it or not.

* * *

Though I can’t becertain, it feels like I’ve been asleep for a couple hours when he wakes me again. This time, there’s no tender kiss on my temple. This time, he presses his naked, damp, and salty-from-the-ocean body on top of me and I automatically open my legs to make room for him.

The pounding in my head has receded enough so that when I open my eyes, I don’t cringe at the natural light coming in through the one window covered by a thin strip of fabric.

“Good morning,” he says, grinning.

“Morning,” I reply, feeling slightly less comfortable being this intimate with him without all that tequila to buffer things. The calculating lawyer in me realizes I may have gone overboard in my efforts to enjoy this vacation. I resolve to extricate myself from this scenario quickly.

“Don’t do that,” he says.

I raise my eyebrows, wondering for a moment if I had said my thoughts out loud. “Don’t do what?”

“Retreat. Put up walls. I’m the same guy you were with last night.”

That he could read me so well catches me by surprise and I laugh.

“What?” he asks, smiling and game for getting in on the joke.

But I’m not about to confirm to him that he’s right in seeing my walls go up. Instead, I deflect, saying, “You’re naked. Between my legs. I wouldn’t call that retreating.”

He tilts his head to acknowledge my point. But then adds the obvious observation. “There’s a sheet between us.”

I watch him for a beat. He’s definitely the same guy from last night. The same sexy, gorgeous, playful guy. It’s a good reminder that I don’t need to cut things too short.

“Don’t let that stop you,” I tell him.

His brown and amber eyes light up and I figure one more—onelast—time with him couldn’t hurt. In fact, I know it will feel just the opposite because when our bodies come together, it is a spectacular feeling.

* * *

The bathroomof this little shack is tiny and purely functional, with a sink right next to the toilet.

And no shower.

There has to be a shower somewhere. Maybe one of those outdoor showers? I didn’t notice one last night when we came in. But then again, I wasn’t paying much attention to anything other than the man I was about to go to bed with.

Sighing, I clean up the best I can before noticing that my hair has that mussed up I-just-got-ravaged look. There’s no use in trying to comb through the tangles with my fingers. Instead, I smooth my hair back as best as I can and tie it in a top-knot.

My dress is still somewhere on the floor in the other room. There’s a robe on the back of the door and by the look of the faded Sheraton logo on the chest, it was appropriated quite a while ago. Still, it’s clean and I slip it on.

Surfer Boy isn’t there in the small space, but the front door is open and I can hear music. When I poke my head outside, I find him sitting in a beach chair, acoustic guitar in his hands as he plucks at the strings. Sitting there in just swim trunks and a bare chest, his hair tousled, he’s a vacation fling fantasy come to life. I watch him without interrupting, enjoying the way he handles the instrument. There’s something almost masterful in how he plays. He makes it look easy, even as I can see his fingers making complicated adjustments that belie that impression. The music itself has a sort of rock-swing vibe with an undeniable hook. I don’t recognize the song but I feel like I should. It has the feel of something proven, something I must have heard on the radio.

He strums the last few notes and then lets the guitar go quiet. I applaud softly and he turns to me in surprise.

“Hey, you. Join me?” He cocks his head toward a second beach chair.

I sit next to him. “That really impressive. What was it?”

---