Page 75 of The Sexy Ex's Brother
“And yet, you’re here.”
We eat on the balcony, her legs draped over mine, our plates balanced between us. Ivy picks at the fruit, watching the waves roll in, and I can’t stop watching her. Every smile, every soft murmur, every glance like she’s still deciding if this, if we, are real.
“I’m sorry,” she says suddenly, her voice quieter than the wind.
I set my fork down. “For what?”
“For leaving. For running. For not asking.”
I shake my head. “No more apologies. We both messed up. But we’re here now.”
She nods, then kisses me, just a brush of lips, sweet and soft.
***
The beach is almost deserted when we arrive, the sand warm beneath our feet. Ivy kicks off her sandals and runs ahead into the water, her laughter catching on the breeze. She dives in like she was born for this, and I follow, the salt stinging my skin, the sun pouring down like absolution.
We swim until we’re breathless, until she floats on her back and I hold her there, hands beneath her shoulders, her hair fanned out like a halo.
Then it happens, one of the strings of her bikini top shifts just slightly, undone by the current. It doesn’t fall, but it dips enough to make my brain glitch.
I adjust it quickly, fingers brushing her wet skin, and mutter, “Okay, that’s it. I’m filing a formal complaint against ocean currents.”
She snickers. “You’re lucky I tied it tight.”
“Not tight enough. We’re gonna need to have a conversation about swimwear regulations.”
She raises a brow, treading water. “You want to start setting dress codes now?”
“I want to keep my sanity. And prevent that guy over there…” I tilt my head toward another man in the water, clearly not subtle in where his eyes land “…from developing heatstroke on my watch.”
Ivy turns, sees him, and laughs. “I think he’s more interested in the coral.”
“He’s not looking at coral. And even if he were, I’d still prefer he looked at literally anything else.”
“Well,” she says, swimming a slow circle around me, “he’s not the one who gets to help me untie it later.”
I grab her waist under the water, dragging her flush against me. “Remind me why we left the room again?”
“Vitamin D,” she quips, grinning.
I groan. “You’re gonna kill me, woman.”
She looks like a siren, one of those mythical things you’re not supposed to want this badly. And her bikini isn’t helping. It’s black, barely-there, tied at the hips with thin string that makes me want to untie it with my teeth. The top dips low, accentuating curves I already know too well, but somehow look even better drenched in sunlight and sea. Her skin glows against the dark fabric, and every time she moves, I have to remind myself thisbeach is technically public, even if it feels like the whole world narrowed down to just her.
"You trying to kill me with that bathing suit?"
She opens one eye, amused. "It’s a swimsuit, Jack. That’s what people wear to the beach."
"Yeah, but people don’t look like you in it," I mutter.
She laughs and splashes me. "Relax. It’s a private beach. Who exactly are you worried about?"
"That guy in the cabana. The one pretending to read."
"Jack. He’s seventy,” she laughs.
"Still has eyes."
