Page 123 of Snowed In
I mean, he told me he was a gym guy. He told me that it cleared his mind and that he was a little vain and liked keeping fit, but I never really thought about what that meant. I knew he looked good in clothes, but I thought that was a posture thing. A nice-clothes, good-posture thing, but it turns out it’s also a nice-clothes, good-posture,washboard-abs thing.
I’ve never been with a guy who had washboard abs. Washboard abs belong in action movies or Instagram ads for protein shakes. Not on real people. And not on people who have made it exceedingly clear that they find me attractive and wouldn’t mind taking things up a notch.
My mouth runs dry as I watch him walk around the hot tub, spreading blankets over chairs and texting someone on his phone. The skin on his chest is bare, with no tattoos or piercings or anything other than a happy little V-trail that disappears into his trunks, all the way down to…well, I can guess where it goes. I can picture it too. In fact, I picture it quite clearly as I linger in the shadows like a little creeping creeper and decide there and then that he should never wear a shirt ever again.
“Megan?”
“Coming,” I yell, skirting around the island to the fridge. By the time I turn back around, champagne in hand, he’s gotten into the tub, half-hidden in the bubbles but looking no less tempting.
Screw it.
I step forward, leaving my comforting robe behind…and freeze at the same time Christian does.
His eyes pin me in place before I’ve even left the kitchen, staring at me like I’d just been staring at him. Only he’s not even trying to hide his interest, taking his time as his eyes rake over my body in a way that makes me want to press my thighs together, and I…love it.
I love it.
And so, what if I sway my hips a little as I step out onto the patio? So, what if I’m a flirt? Frankie’s right.
I’m an excellent flirt.
TWENTY-SEVEN
CHRISTIAN
Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.
I had nothing but the best intentions. All I was trying to do was thank her for taking care of me. To apologize for ruining her Christmas by dragging her up here. I wanted to make it up to her. To be her friend.
And then she walks onto the porch in that bikini, and the last thing I’m thinking about is being in any way platonic. I should have known. I could barely handle seeing her in a swimsuit, for God’s sake, and that covered a lot more skin than she’s showing now.
I don’t know what it is about her that makes me feel like a teenager again trying to catch the eye of a girl for the first time, but I’m enormously glad I’m already in the water when she approaches, and I shift as subtly as I can, rearranging myself as she sets her drink on the side and climbs cautiously in.
The noise she makes when she relaxes back is just cruel.
“Okay,” she says, closing her eyes. “All of that was worth it for this.”
I couldn’t agree more.
She sinks farther into the water, her cheeks flushing from the heat, and I’m trying desperately to think of spreadsheets and emails and deposits and budgets and anything else, anyoneelse, but her. But then her eyes snap open, finding me immediately, and she smiles a shy little smile that makes my heart pang.
The smile widens. “Almost forgot my champagne,” she says, reaching for the glass. “I feel like a celebrity.”
“You look like one. Do you want a picture of you and the—”
“Yes,” she says, and I laugh as I reach for my phone. It takes her a few seconds to figure out her pose, settling on simply holding the flute up like she’s toasting to someone.
I take two before she’s happy, and then she insists on taking one of me. After that, neither of us sees any reason to stop, coming up with increasingly ridiculous poses as we make it through one glass of champagne and on to another.
“I feel bad about Andrew’s proposal,” she says, as I pour them out.
I don’t. Call me a bad brother and a terrible person, but I am perfectly okay that Megan and I are here and they are not. Someone’s got to be the selfish sibling.
“He’ll find another moment,” I say, ever the diplomat. “Molly didn’t want to come up here, anyway.”
“I guess.” Our fingers brush as I hand her the glass, and she takes a quick sip. “How are you feeling?”
“Better,” I say truthfully. “You know, for someone who never gets sick, you’re really good at looking after people.”
