Page 34 of Second Tide's the Charm
But my plan was thwarted when he shoved his hands into the pockets of his shorts instead of taking the towels. “Mine are striped.”
There are only two striped towels in the condo to my knowledge, but I hope I’m wrong. “Gray and blue?”
“Yes.” He elongates the word with a wariness that’s fully warranted.
“Those are in the washer.” Have I been usinghistowels all week? Feels like I invaded his privacy, which is ridiculous. “Prior to that, they were wadded up on the bathroom floor.” Sabotaged by the awkward explanation, I put on a cheery smile. “So really, could be worse.”
So much for a brief, businesslike interaction to set the tone for the rest of the summer.
“You...” He clears his throat, a guttural rasp that weakens my knees. “You’ve been usingmytowels?”
The way he says it is faintly accusatory, like I’m some sort of creep. Which, ironically, is how I felt a moment ago, but indignation takes over. “Not like that!”
“Like what?”
“I didn’t know they were yours! You make it sound like I’m a towel bandit.”
His laugh is a tangible thing, dancing along my skin like a forbidden caress. “Wasn’t aware there were specialized designations of bandits.” He’s teasing me, and I should steer the conversation back to neutral ground, but I can’t help playing along.
“You should be grateful,” I reply. “You’re getting freshly washed towels.”
“I know, I’m the one who washed them,” he says.
“But you left them in the dryer. If I hadn’t used them, the humidity would’ve seeped in and left them mildewy. If you think about it, I did you a favor.” I raise my brows, not minding how dangerously close we are to flirting. “You owe me, if anything.”
“So not only did you steal my towels—”
“Borrowed. And not on purpose.”
He keeps talking like I hadn’t interrupted, an unmistakable twinkle in his onyx eyes. “But you’re also holding them hostage in hopes of a token of gratitude?”
“Hostage?”
He shrugs, the motion highlighting his deltoid muscles under the short-sleeve Henley. “If the bandit shoe fits...”
“Oh my gosh, really?” I’m grinning, though.
“Kidding, Hope.” He cracks a wide smile. “What’s mine is yours.” An offhand remark, but his eyes widen.
What’s mine is yours.He always said that when we were dating, whether it was his hoodie or his notes from a seminar he thought might interest me. Clearly, he’s also venturing into a dangerous place, outside the boundary we’ve drawn, where the pain of our breakup is fading in light of our time together.
I shouldn’t have replied to his text. Should’ve waited until Marissa was here and—
His phone chimes, and a half second later my pocket vibrates. Weird. I shift the towels to one arm and pull out my phone. An email notification. I tap and discover it’s from Gabe.
Subject: Ready for your Shark Science Crew debut?
Adrian is CC’d using the same email he’s always had, and it’s odd to think he was so reachable, if only I hadn’t given up. Pushing the thought aside, I open the email and discover a video link entitled: Freshwater Biologist Talks Sharks?
Nauseated, I clamp my mouth shut tight. I know it’s worded as a question to entice clicks, not to call my credentials into question, but the phrasing brings up all the feelings of inadequacy from the council meeting.
“‘Shark Science Crewdebut’? C’mon now.” Adrian sounds amused, and I look over and find him looking at his phone, a grudging half smile creasing his bearded cheek. “Hate when he rhymes on purpose,” he mutters.
He glances up, takes one look at me, and says, “Hey, nothing’s final yet.” Stepping forward, he closes the distance between us, dark eyes soft with concern. His solid presence infuses my senses, soaking into me like being submerged in sun-warmed waves. “Why don’t we watch it together, then you can tell me how you feel about us sharing it.”
“Here?” My voice is breathless, but I don’t bother trying again.
He raises his eyes, looking past me into the empty apartment, no doubt noticing my bed set up in the corner, the blankets rumpled in inviting disarray. Above the open collar of his shirt, his throat bobs in a distracting swallow.
