Page 17 of Late to Love

I stare back. I see no point in hiding my interest anymore. Surely he knows I’m interested. How could he not?

His jaw ticks beneath his beard, and I’m overcome with the desire to touch it. I want to feel the roughness of it under my palm, over my mouth, between my legs. I want his hands cupping my breasts and hauling me onto his lap.

Basically, Iwant.

And it’s that very want that has me unsure of how to behave.

“I won’t apologize again if you won’t,” he finally says, blinking his attention back to the ocean in front of us.

Even the man’s profile is striking. He is so entirely unfair that I want to kick my feet and shake my fist in protest. Believe me, the temptation ishigh. Instead, I lean back on my palms and give my attention to the waves before us. I lose myself in the steadying, soothing rhythm of its continuity, the absolute unstoppable nature of it. I think that’s why I love coming here so much: because no matter what kind of mood I’m in, the ocean never wavers. Its colors might change, but that’s only because of the sky above it.

Anthony reclines on his elbows beside me, his sunglasses back in place and safely hiding those perceptive eyes once more. And thank God for it. I’ve never felt so…seenas when he looked at me. As though the more vulnerable he let himself be, the more he saw of me in the process.

How in the fuck is that even fair?

Also not fair: his legs. Free of ink and thick with muscle, stretching out before us, tanned from a life of living at the shore. Beside him, my own legs aren’t remotely similar, much more pale despite my frequent trips to the beach, and definitely less muscled. I’m strong, don’t get me wrong, I have to be to do the kind of work I do, but I’ll never have anything approaching definition in my thighs.

Which is fine by me. I like my body. It’s strong, and healthy, and does everything I ask of it. I’ll never be thin, but I’ve never really wanted to be. It seems a little boring, if I’m being honest. I enjoy standing out. I like wearing bright colors and putting my hair in bandanas and strutting around in tight skirts or overalls.

But back to the man beside me. The very confusing, but incredibly attractive, older man. The more I think about it, the more I find I care less and less about the age difference. Sure, he was seventeen when I was born. But I’m twenty-four now. Old enough to know precisely what I want.

The question is: does he want me?

Shaking my head at myself, I focus back on the serenity of the ocean, only for my stomach to growl at the lack of food it’s been given today. Thankfully, Anthony doesn’t seem to notice. Or if he does, he doesn’t react. He seems just as lost in his thoughts as I am in mine.

I stand, turning away to brush the sand off and to shake the towel free. Someone has to leave, so I guess it’s going to be me. Leaning to grab my Birkenstocks, I pause when Anthony pulls his sunglasses off to look at me.

“See you tomorrow?”

Why does it seem like that’s a more loaded question than it should be?

“Yep. Bright and early,” I chirp.

He nods, and without another word, I walk away. I don’t look back, but I swear I feel his gaze on me.

Back home, I make an easy lunch of peanut butter and jelly sandwich and an apple, then head out to the garage. I know exactly what I’m going to do for the extra space in Anthony’s loft. It finally hit me, and there’s nothing to do but get started. Pulling out my notebook to start the sketch, I hope he likes it.

Chapter8

Anthony

MID-JUNE. THE place is absolutely overrun with people, which is of course exactly how I like it. Kids dart in and out of the front area, strewing sticky fingers and sand in every direction. It’ll be hell to clean, but that’s okay—it’s summer, and I expect no less than pure chaos. I’m behind the bar, same as most days, so I’m able to keep an eye on the more expensive aspects of things: the bar, the pool tables, and the bowling lane, all of which are packed in the post-dinner hour.

A few women around my age approach. They smile, their eyes tracking my every movement as I take their orders and start to make the drinks.

Harrison sidles up beside me, and in a low voice says, “The redhead is totally into you.”

I shrug. “So?”

“So, you should go for it. I never see you sample the goods, boss.” He grins and waggles his eyebrows for emphasis.

“No.” And why is my answer immediately no? Because I still can’t get a certain twenty-four-year-old out of my head. Seeing her on the beach last week was bad enough, but it’s gotten worse. She’s around nearly every day, wearing those damn overalls with a crop top beneath, revealing inches of skin that I’m desperate to taste, and it’s torture. Pure and simple.

Would I like to forget all about her and bury myself in someone else? Yes. Will I? No.

Fuck.

I turn back to the much closer in age women and give them their drinks. Sure enough, the redhead flirts with me, her interest coming through loud and clear. And I don’t respond, because nothing is going to happen. At all.

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