Page 95 of Pick-Up
“I think the word you’re looking for isexciting.”
“That’s definitely not the word I had in mind.”
“You’re the editor,” I say with a shrug. I rest my forearm over my eyes. If I can’t see him, will I also turn invisible?
This makes me think of Bart, who subscribed wholeheartedly to this belief when he was a toddler. “Oh, damn!” I curse, sitting up. “I was hoping to grab conch shells for my kids! And I forgot to take pictures!”
“Do you want a picture now?”
“Of me lying on the couch? With an ice pack on my…? No, thank you. I would not like to memorialize this moment.”
Ugh. The outing was an epic fail on every level.
“Is that even environmentally sound?” Ethan says, eyes narrowed in thought. “Taking the conch shells out of their ecosystem? I think they might be endangered.”
I lift up just high enough on my elbows to shoot him a dirty look, then plop back down.
“I don’t know why you’re annoyed with me. It feels like I’m the one who should be mad.”
My heart plummets along with my full-time job prospects. “Because I ruined the video shoot?”
“No, I’m not worried about that.” Ethan shakes his adorable head. “If someone (and by ‘someone’ I mean me) leaks the footage, it will definitely go viral. One for the blooper reel. That fall was digital gold.”
I snatch the pillow from behind my head and whip it at his face. It misses him by a mile. I really need to work on my aim. He watches it arc and hit a bookshelf. Ball four.
Unfortunately, now I have no pillow for my head, so my neck is contorted in an awkward position against the ridge of the sofa. I adjust. Readjust. Then readjust again.
“For the love of God!” Ethan exclaims. He grabs a throw pillow from an armchair beside him and hands it to me. I tuck it behind my neck, haughty with what little self-respect I have left.
It occurs to me that maybe Professional Sasha has personnel problems beyond being attracted to her would-be employer. Like throwing foreign objects at him.
“Why should you be mad, then?” I ask. “It’s not likeyougot stung by a jellyfish. You don’t look injured!”
On the contrary. He looks A-plus. Of course. The boat ride has dried us a bit, but his T-shirt is still damp and fused to his chest and shoulders. Shoulders so broad they have no business belonging to a magazine editor.
“Actually, my ego is pretty bruised,” he says, his arms raised to the sides with palms up, as if to present himself. “I can’t say I’ve ever had a woman jump into jellyfish-infested waters to avoid talking to me before.”
“I was saving the sarong!” I protest.
“How heroic. You’ll be a top contender for the Medal of Honor. Save the Sarong!”
“Sarong rights are human rights,” I deadpan.
He groans. Collapses into a chair. Buries his head in his hands in frustration.
I am torn. On one hand, I am impressed by my own ability to drive other humans, especially this one, bonkers. On the other, the man is only trying to help. I nearly humiliated him on the hammock—and then I was in fact avoiding him. And yet he just gave up a dreamy, perhaps once-in-a-lifetime afternoon on a deserted sandbar with free-flowing food, booze and good company to come back here and watch me ice my loins.
When was the last time someone did something like that for me? Took care of me? Prioritized me?
“Ethan,” I say softly.
He deigns to look up at me, peering from above his hands.
“Thank you for coming back with me. For caring how I’m feeling. And for making sure that I’m okay.”
He drops his hands. Shoots me a small shy smile, more killer even than his higher-watt ones. Then looks down, pleased. I have given him at least a taste of what he wants.
“You’re welcome,” he says. “I’m glad you’re okay.”
