Page 94 of Pick-Up
As Stephanie and Jackie squabble, Ethan and Jimmy help me to standing and, as best as I can, I limp toward the boat. With absolutely no grace, I climb in. Ethan follows behind, taking a seat beside me.
“What are you doing?” I ask him, too shrilly.
“I’m coming with you.”
“What? Why? No! You should stay here and enjoy the rest of the afternoon.”
“No way.” He shakes his head. “I’m not sending you back alone. Anyway, it’s a liability. I can’t have you die on us. The magazine might get sued.”
“I’m not planning to expire.”
“Best-laid plans…”
He’s joking, but I realize he’s not going to budge. There’s legit concern in his eyes. For me, I think. Not the magazine. I have other concerns.
“But—”
“No buts,” he says. “Even if that’s your kink.”
I drop my head in my hands. Oy. I will never live this down. Any of it.
For the record, I am not a clumsy person. This man just throws me off-balance.
The boat’s engine sputters then purrs. As we’re pulling away, I turn back to the beach. “Stephanie!” I shout. “I’m sorry I got your sarong wet!”
“No worries,” she shouts back. “I think you put it to good use, ya damsel.”
I pull my hat down to obscure my red face.
On the boat ride back, Ethan asks if I’m okay so many times that eventually Jimmy lays a gentle hand on his shoulder and says, “Mr. Ethan. This is not a life-threatening injury.”
In truth, though the site of the bite is throbbing, the pain isn’t extreme. Jimmy has given me an ice pack from the boat’s first aid kit, which is slumping on my upper thigh (let’s just say crotch and call a spade a spade). As long as I lean back, keep my thighs apart and my leg outstretched like a cowboy in a saloon, it’s really okay. I try not to consider the visual.
It’s really the humiliation of the past hour that’s searing an irrevocablehole in my being. What iswrongwith me? I am an adult woman. I have two children. A career. Friends. People who trust and respect my opinion. Yet, even now, with a giant welt swelling on my thigh, I am distracted by this man’s proximity to me like some hormonal teenager. By the memory of how it felt to snuggle in close to his shoulder and side. By the way he runs a hand through his hair when he’s stressed. By the way he’s looking at me now with full brown eyes.
Was I ever this infatuated with Cliff? If so, I can’t remember.
Oh no.I am infatuated.
To be clear, Ethan is not gazing at me with lust or affection. It’s more like I’m his dumbest and most pathetic child. Like he’s wondering, is she okay? And, also, how does she get herself into these messes? And, lastly, will she still be living in my basement when I’m retired?
When we reach the shores of Citrine, Jimmy anchors and ties off the boat, then helps ease me up onto the small wooden dock. Ethan is either too wise to me, afraid of me or horrified by me to be my crutch on the way to the villa, so I lean on our captain as I limp to the door.
“I’ll be back with medical!” says Jimmy, once we’re inside. Like this isBaywatchand I have almost drowned in my own hotness. Only if this wereBaywatch, my hair would be blown out in perfect beach waves instead of knotted into a rat’s nest from the wind. He hurries outside to the golf cart and jumps in like it goes more than fifteen miles per hour.
Gingerly, I lie down on the couch, a throw pillow under my head, and continue to ice my wound.
Ethan brings me a glass of water and sets it down on the table. Of course he uses a coaster.Damn. This man is perfection.
I’ll raise you one ex-wife who says different.
The warring sides of my brain. I am reminded to be wary.
“So,” says Ethan.
“So,” I respond.
“That was…”
