Page 92 of Hot Girl Summer

“Well can we at least finish the date? I had it all planned out, and it would be a shame to let the weather go to waste.”

Here he is, the man I love, making the best out of a bad situation.

Positive vibes only.

I hate myself. I completely and utterly despise these intrusive thoughts I have and everything about myself that holds back my happiness.

The cool tide infiltrates the space between us, jolting us back into reality. I deserve it. Deserve to be completely washed away, devoid of every trace, because I feel like a monster.

“Fuck it. Let’s do it,” I say.

In my mind, this is our final goodbye, and I never want it to end.

After Penny has her fill of the ocean, and the buckets are overflowing with shellfish, we make our way back to the house.

“Where’s Amelia?” I ask, carefully removing my wellies and leaving them by the back door.

I hand Danny my bucket, and when his fingers graze mine for a sweet second, I remember how good it feels to be touched by him. He doesn’t seem to notice. Or if he does, he has an excellent poker face. “She’s out with her friends.”

“Do you mind if I borrow a hairdryer? My jeans are soaked.”

“Sure, help yourself. It’s in a storage box in the wardrobe. Left hand side.”

“Thanks.”

After I start to climb the stairs, he calls my name. I turn to face him.

“I still have all your clothes here.”

Of course. How did I forget about those? I make a mental note to take them back with me when I leave. How I’ll do that while cycling is beyond me.

After my jeans are warm and dry, and I’ve checked my makeup, I join Danny downstairs, where he’s busying himself over a pot of boiling water in the centre of the kitchen island. I perch on a bar stool facing him and peer over the stove.

“How long do they have to cook for?”

“Just a couple more minutes.”

He holds a couple of metal pins over the fire of a gas ring, and places them on a tissue.

Once the periwinkles are cooked, he strains them and sets them aside in two batches; one for each of us. He sits down next to me with an empty bowl between us, and shows me how to prise them out of their shell casing. We sit in silence while we’re tasked with filling the bowl with the small, slimy, molluscs.

“Have you tried one yet?” I ask. They don’t look particularly appetising.

He shakes his head. “I’m sure they’ll be just like escargot.”

“I forgot you were fancy,” I smirk, and he retaliates with a bite of his lip.

My eyes focus on his mouth for far too long, but I manage to push my thoughts aside.

“Want to do it together?”

I pick out two plump, juicy ones from my bowl and hand one over to him. I mirror him, my mouth open as he brings it to his lips, and sucks it from his fingers.

Fuck. How can he make something so gross look so sexy?

I chew once, then swallow it whole. The texture is odd, slimy, but they’re surprisingly sweet, with a salty aftertaste.

“Did you enjoy that?” he asks.

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