Page 10 of Second Tide's the Charm
I’ve turned around to see if Adrian needs a hand up—I don’t resent him enough to ignore common decency—but he’s already hooked his elbows over the edge. His shoulders bunch with definition, broad lats straining against his soaking wet tee. He’s always been big—whenever he wrapped me in his strong, solid arms, it felt like coming home to a safe harbor—but now his drenched shirt clings to sculpted muscles that hint at hours spent in a weight room he used to scorn as a waste of time.
With no apparent effort, he hoists his entire torso out of the water, shirt clinging to pecs and abs that have me swallowing, hard. He swings his leg over with ease and climbs onto the dock in front of me. Adrian in board shorts has always been my undoing, and I can testify some things never change. His muscled thighs are quite frankly indecent. Water slips down his quadriceps in rivulets, tracing a glistening path around his knees, and I look down at my feet to stop myself from cataloging every muscle in his familiar frame that’s changed so much.
He’s grown impossibly more handsome in our years apart, and I’m standing here with my ponytail hanging lopsided and bedraggled, bike shorts bunched in an awkward wedgie, with the Velcro on one of my sandals undone. I don’t usually spare much thought for my appearance beyond looking presentable, but it would’ve been nice for our first meeting not to happen when I just experienced the real-life version of a dunk tank.
In fact, I’ve dreamed up a lot of scenarios of what might happen when I saw Adrian again, and none of them included an involuntary swim and attempted rescue. Sometimes I pictured presenting my latest paper at a conference and running into him in the hallway afterward, where he would shower my groundbreaking findings with praise.
Other times, I imagined our paths crossing in a chance meeting at a café—he’d pick up my Earl Grey tea by mistake, see my name scribbled on the cup, and search for me across the room. Our eyes would meet, and I wave a hand as if to say, “All yours” and walk away with my head high, cool and collected... The exact opposite of my current soggy state.
Worth noting that in all my daydreams about a chance meeting with Adrian, I’m never flaunting a sexy new boyfriend. But that’s not something I care to explore, especially not with my very real, very sexyex-boyfriend standing right in front of me.
I’m at a loss as to the proper social etiquette for this reunion. A handshake? A firm nod of professional amicability? A hello kiss?
My eyes rise to his lips at the thought. How would it feel to kiss him now? My lips tingle in anticipation of the gentle scrape of his beard, the decadent pleasure of his mouth claiming mine... Yeah, that would not set the tone for the rest of the summer.
But I never planned to be alone with him. My brain can’t handle the discombobulation. Five minutes in and my plan is falling to pieces. Here we are, alone together, and Marissa is—I glance around—there, at the end of the dock, arguing with someone. Wait, I know that person.
Shading my eyes, I squint to be sure. “Why is your sister here?” My heart sinks even further. Adrian’s sister and I used to be close, but who knows what he’s told her about me since the breakup.
The last time we saw each other was the Thanksgiving meal I shared with their family before I left. I expected to see her again in the New Year, and instead it’s been more than three. My stomach turns more sour than the time I drank a pint of expired chocolate milk on a dare in middle school. Clearly, I underestimated the myriad complications that could arise from accepting this job.
Adrian follows my gaze, then his attention snaps back to me. “Why areyouhere?”
“You weren’t expecting me?” I ask, though it seems obvious he wasn’t.
Sure enough, he shakes his head, which sends his hair into his eyes. He swipes it back over his head, revealing a flash of rounded biceps I do my best not to notice. If only he hadn’t gone and made his muscles even more obvious, this would’ve been easier.
Not true—he’s always been irresistible—but lying to myself is the best way to keep functioning at this point.
I open my mouth to explain, but nothing comes out. I can’t confess aloud, to my ex, that I’m so desperate to find a way back into shark research that I was willing to work with him. Especially since it turns out that willingness may not be mutual.
My teeth start chattering with the retreat of adrenaline, and Adrian’s look of confusion morphs into something mortifyingly close to pity. “You’re soaked. Let’s get you a towel and then we can sort this out.”
He turns and walks down the dock in the opposite direction of the women, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the weathered gray wood. Marissa hasn’t looked my way, and I’m hesitant to confront her with Iris around. I could wind up looking like a fool, which is pretty likely, given the morning’s events.
Against my better judgment, I follow Adrian. Heck, this whole trip is against my better judgment. Why start listening to common sense now?
The boards echo hollowly under my feet, like I’m walking to my doom, but the familiar scent of briny air is welcoming. My curls are half-dry already, skin sticky and tight, though my clothes cling to me, still sopping.
We pass several runabouts tied up at the cleats, and a few cabin cruisers. I check the boat names as we pass—Adrian and I used to try to one-up one another with finding the most outrageous ones.
I spot a sleek center console tied up near the end of the dock with the wordPraesperoinscribed on the bow in sloping cursive. A dark-haired man is sitting onboard, his back to us.
Forgetting for a moment what we are to one another now, I point it out to Adrian. “Look. That guy’s boat is namedPraespero.” I picked up enough Latin from taxonomy to figure out the meaning immediately.To Hope.
Joking, I say, “Do you think he named it after me?”
“What?” He glances around and must spot it, because he says, “That’s not his, it’s mine.”
I stop. Dead in my tracks. My head feels...woozy. The way he said it was so matter-of-fact, but Adrian doesn’t even own a skiff, let alone a gorgeous boat like that. At thirty, unless he’s had a massive career shift, I can’t see how he’d afford it. And the name—
“I’m going to grab you a towel, okay?” His soft words interrupt my racing thoughts. Without waiting for an answer, he heads off. Reaching the boat, he hops aboard and says something to the other man, who turns and waves, as if he expected me.
I did not expect him, and I don’t wave. My chattering teeth have given way to goose bumps by the time Adrian makes his way back, a rumpled towel in his hands. Brow knotted in concern, he settles it over my shoulders, rubbing my arms through the fabric. The friction jerks me to alertness and we lock eyes—his are deep and dark and serious, and the way he holds my gaze while he buffs away the chill awakens an answering heat inside me.
My lips part, and he steps away, movements jerky. Fumbling, I clutch the ends of the towel at my chest. The terry cloth is stiff, with the faint musty smell of something left to air dry in the summer heat, but I feel less exposed with it wrapped around my shoulders, like the fabric is a barrier to the emotions threatening to escape.
Adrian scratches at his jaw, and my eyes are drawn once again to his beard. What a difference facial hair makes on a face I know as well as my own. The beard accentuates his strong jaw, the perfect complement to his already handsome face.
