Page 37 of Beach Bodies

I find myself… wordless. Utterly content to just lie here, being touched. Time feels slow, generous, like it’s opened up a pocket of eternity for the two of us to rest in for as long as we want. Daniel apparently doesn’t feel the need to talk, either, and I know without asking that we’re experiencing the same thing: the present. A rare thing when I’m mostly either grieving the past or planning for the future.

Daniel’s fingers are light and agile on my skin as they dance over my spine. I stretch with a satisfied moan.

‘What’s this?’ His fingers stop their stroking.

I crane to look. Ah– that little area on my left forearm.

‘Just some old scars.’

‘Cooking oil?’

‘No.’ I rub the spot– just a sprinkling of white dots, like a constellation. Almost invisible now, unless you’re looking closely. ‘I don’t cook.’

‘Wait. Your catering business—’ he begins.

‘I know, I know. Jess was the chef. I ran the business side. You know, the contracts, the bookkeeping, the advertising. The boring part.’ I pause. ‘Obviously we have a new head chef now.’

His finger makes little circles over the scars. ‘What’s the story, then?’

‘Always the journalist.’

‘Or maybe you just fascinate me.’

I laugh and roll on to my side, pulling the sheet up around me. ‘It was the early days of our catering company. Jess got a deal on an industrial-sized coffee maker on eBay. But every time we tried to use it, we tripped the breaker. We didn’t have the money to hire an electrician, so I watched a few YouTube videos and…’ I realize I’m smiling. Which, considering it’s a memory of Jessica, feels… different. Good.‘I went into the electrical panel to bypass the breaker, and it was filthy. Like, so dirty. So I got a wire brush to clean the lug. The brush accidentally shorted out to ground, and there was a huge spark, and basically I got showered with molten metal.’

‘Holy shit,’ says Daniel.

‘I know. It ruined my favourite Beatles T-shirt. And it also got me between the electrical gloves and my sleeve.’

He grins. ‘I had a sense that you were the handy type.’

‘I wouldn’t call myself handy. It’s more like I do what hasto get done.’ I pause, taking in Daniel’s incredible body. Solid, with a smattering of dark hair across his broad chest. And I realize that I barely know a thing about this man. I wag a playful finger. ‘You’re really good at getting me to talk, mister, but you don’t talk much yourself, do you?’

‘Occupational hazard.’

‘Tell me something about you. Are you handy?’

His grin turns mischievous. ‘Well, didn’t you think so?’

‘No, really!’ I swat him. ‘Do you own a tool box? Can you use a wrench?’

He grins again, but then clears his throat and knits his eyebrows like he’s decided to behave.

‘Um, let’s see. I’ve replaced a faucet. Caulked a bathtub. Do you want the whole CV?’

‘Plus references.’ I laugh, and so does he. ‘Here’s a better question. Why journalism?’

He rolls on to his back, and now it’s my turn to scootch over and prop myself above him, trailing my fingers down his chest, swirling my fingertips through the hair.

‘The short answer? Conviction. The world needs people who are willing to tell the real story.’

‘No rose-coloured glasses,’ I say.

‘No.’ He loses his gaze in the ceiling.

‘You say that like you’re sad.’

He readjusts his body, putting his hands behind his head, which highlights the musculature of his arms.

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