Must Love Otters (11 page)

But eww. I’m on vacation. Exercise can haunt me when I get back to my crappy life.

The gift shop is a tiny little thing, no bigger than my apartment living room and packed to the gills with all kinds of Canadiana. Wool First Nations blankets, fleece pullovers with wolves and killer whales, key chains, shot glasses, Revelation Cove-embossed memorabilia, snacks, golf shirts, ball caps, winter hats, scarves, leather purses, journals, beaded necklaces and silver, hand-tooled earrings, collector’s spoons and thimbles, even CDs and books from local creatives. And about four bathing suits to choose from, none of them particularly breathtaking.

How am I going to land a stud wearing poochy foam cups and a cellulite-shielding skirt?

“If there’s nothing in here, you can always check the lost and found,” Ryan says, his smile like that of a little brother. If I had one of those, I’m sure this is what his obnoxious face would look like after he hid a spider in my bed.

“You can keep those to sell in your used underwear and VCR repair shop, thanks,” I snipe.

Ryan chuckles. “VCR repair will be big business again someday. You just wait.”

I hold up one suit that has neither foam nor skirt. Black, it’s slightly lower cut on the thighs than I’d prefer, but it’s the sexiest of the lot. Which isn’t saying much. If I had more than a handful of minutes left, I could probably fashion something sexier out of a pillowcase, a shower cap, and some stale jellybeans.

“This one, I suppose,” I say to Ryan. I look at the tag. “Holy shit, seriously? Sixty-five bucks for
this
?”

“Quality doesn’t come cheap. And think about the memories you’ll make being clothed for this dip in the water. It’s a far different experience than what you had last night.”

“Are you always this insufferable?”

“If by insufferable you mean charming and irresistible, then absolutely yes.” Ryan takes the hanger out of my hands, holds the suit up against me, and nods. “Perfect. Will keep you chaste.”

“You’re a Neanderthal.”

Ryan winks and walks to the counter where yet another young woman works behind the counter. “Tabitha, this is a gift for my friend Hollie.”

“That’s not necessary, Ryan. I can pay for it.”

“You’re newly single, remember?” I look at him, aghast that he’d mention this in front of the shop girl. “All I mean is, let a guy treat a girl. Broken hearts are the worst. Besides,” he leans closer, “we can’t have you flopping around the joint in your birthday suit. Once was grand, but this is a family establishment.” Tabitha smiles at him—and I can’t figure out if she’s smiling because she heard about last night or if she really wants Ryan to notice how cute and perky she is. The longer the smile lingers, which is the whole time we stand before her at the cash counter, she does not at all try to hide that those starry, dreamy eyes are for Concierge Ryan and his crooked nose. In spite of the cliché, I actually roll my eyes.

“Thank you.” I yank the suit out of his hand and stomp out of the shop.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” he calls after me.

I’m going to do everything you wouldn’t do and it’s gonna be
awesome
.

I’m a couple minutes late meeting Roger in the lobby, but he’s made good use of the time. In his hands he clutches two sweating, ice-cold bottles. “Local brewery. Well, local as in Vancouver. Canadians make excellent beer. We’re trying to get some of these guys to import to us.”

The healthy swallow is to prepare myself for the imminent reveal of my not-so-sexy bathing suit. I’m glad it fit, especially given the duress under which it was acquired, and it’s certainly better than the piece-o-shit I brought with. But still. When Ryan said chaste, he wasn’t kidding. Even trying to hike the hips up a little just makes me look like an escaped nun on her first post-convent bender. Not exactly Aphrodite. So we’ll just get in the water and work with whatever else I’ve got. At least the bodice pushes up my boobs. Maybe he’ll notice those instead of the 1920s-era action going on around my thighs.

Roger is an enthusiastic swimmer. When he dives under, I quickly disrobe and lower myself into the heated pool before he can get a whole glimpse at the ensemble. Boobs above water and I should be okay.

Our first beers finished, he pays a pool attendant to go to the bar and bring out another round. After the day’s Mimosas, I’m already feeling bloated. Adding beer to this is not helping. I sip only, afraid I will be a gaseous mess in another hour. And farting is only safe in a jetted hot tub with other people present to shoulder the blame.

Roger does a few laps, showing off his fine, muscled form. And fine and muscled, it is. His skin is tanned, surprising given that he lives and works in one of the rainiest cities in the country. Maybe he’s one of those vain fake-and-bakers.

Or maybe he’s just come back from a buying jaunt to Central America where he spent some of his time donating to orphan charities or building schools. Maybe he’s back from an activism trip to Africa where he fought to stop the hunt of elephants for their ivory. Or maybe he’s back from an excursion aboard an exploration vessel to seek out new and amazing products from the indigenous people of the South Pacific.

Wherever the tan came from, it looks good on him. Good enough to lick.

I will attempt no laps for fear of drowning halfway across. I’ve been blessed with a naturally quick metabolism, but the last time I ran around a soccer pitch, I was seventeen. After we were handed the final loss of an abysmal season, I hung up my cleats and haven’t broken a sweat since, unless you count pushing and boxing my way through the Black Friday crowd at Nordstrom Rack.

Under water, something—or someone—pinches my rear. Roger emerges, shaking free the water from his now-shaggy hair. As we’re in the shallow end, he leans against the wall, knees bent, and pulls me onto his lap. It feels weird to be held by someone else, a little awkward because I’ve only known him for not even an entire day. That feeling of being a thirteen-year-old French-kiss virgin surges—when Andy Andrews, the boy with the name so nice, they named him twice, asked me atop the play structure at the school if I’d ever French kissed. Before I could answer, his tongue was down my throat.

And although Roger from Seattle is no Andy Andrews—shit, unless Roger’s last name is Rogers—this still feels a little scary.

Oh my God, I don’t even know his last name.

Let go, Hol. It’s okay. You’re on vacation, remember? Relax. Relax into him.

I do, silently hoping that I won’t feel if he’s excited under my thigh. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt another man’s … excitement … I know I’m not cheating on Keith, because we broke up, but it’s a little soon for me to know if Roger’s happy stick functions after two beers in a warm pool.

Apparently it does.

Which prompts me to delicately slide off his lap, my best flirt smile pasted on my face to hide my nerves.
Why am I so nervous?

Because I haven’t had loads of experience with men, despite my obvious charm and pleasing affect. And he’s a bit older than me. Six years, but still. That’s six years longer that he’s had to work the system. Or perhaps many systems.

What if he has herpes? God, I’d never live that down. First sign of a lip lesion, Keith would freak out and accuse me of cheating and thus likely infecting the Yorkies by my mere presence. Even though I’m not cheating because we broke up.

I’m single.

I’m doing what single people
do.

“You okay?” Roger asks.

“Yeah! Yeah, just the combination of a long day in the sun, the alcohol, this warm pool …”

“And of course, my intoxicating presence.”

“Certainly there’s that.”

“You want a ride?”

“On …” Oh God, he’s not asking me to. In the pool. Here. Is he?

He smirks. “On my shoulders. Arms around my neck. I’ll pull you around the water. It’s very relaxing.”

“I’m good. You swim. I’m thinking I’ll just float. Over here. By the warm vents.”

“Dinner soon, then?” He raises an eyebrow. “After such a spectacular failure on the golf course, you at least have to let me buy you dinner to prove that I’m not completely inept.”

“You get points for effort,” I say.

“Please, no more points. I’m already so far over par, the PGA would ban me from their approved courses if they got wind of it.”

“And rightfully so. A par-three doesn’t mean ten strokes later.” Roger laughs. Glad my dad golfed for a few dark years so I know what the hell par means. Something to do with how many times you’re allowed to try to get the little ball in the little hole.

But how Roger’s looking at me right now, I hope he’s not calculating my par score. Breakfast + lunch + dinner = three strokes. Then the hole?

I’m going to ignore that little voice in my head screaming at me that I’m behaving like a girl of questionable scruples.

“I could be coerced into joining you for dinner.”

“Really? Now I have to resort to coercion?” Roger erases the distance between us, wrapping an arm around my waist. His mouth is close enough that I can see the tiny lines in the surface of his lips. Plump lips, but not too much. Not like the weird kid in the back of the class who ate paste and boogers. His lips were really big and flesh-colored and made him look like a
Star Wars
creature. Roger’s aren’t like that. At all. And especially not when they make contact with mine.

All those mushy words romance writers use: warm, soft, moist.

All of those. Yeah. Oh, and nice. A little tongue, but not too much. Breath minty. Conscientious, this one. Scruples be damned, he’s a good kisser. Those extra six years he’s got on me have been well spent, and his body squishing against mine might just be worth the risk of herpes.

I should be playing coy. Saying no.

We all know
no
isn’t my strong suit.

I really want to say yes.

His excitement is rising. Between us. I should be embarrassed, but I’m not. Not really. It’s a confidence boost to know that I’ve still got it, that Keith didn’t suck all the life out of me. Roger is a successful, handsome, accomplished individual who could likely have any woman he wants—and for all I know, he has had every woman he wants—but right now, his arousal is pressed against my lower half, and my lower half is sorta diggin’ it.

What the hell!
I can have any
man
I want. Look at me go!

Our interlude is brief, interrupted by the cleared throat of a dad with a floatie-clad toddler on one hip, his other hand clutched around fingers belonging to a wee, curly-haired girl in a tutu bathing suit.

“Family venue and all that,” I whisper, hiding my flushed face against Roger’s cologne-spiced neck.

“Maybe we should see about that dinner,” he says, arms scooping me from the water. He carries me to the stairs and I sit, hoping he will dash out first so I can avoid him seeing this swimsuit in all its glory.

Why do I care? He just had his erection pressed against my stomach. I’m guessing he won’t care about the suit at this point. And my legs still got it. The minimal cellulite naturally present doesn’t wink when I walk nor does it harbor the scary purple veins painting Dr. Aurora’s legs. Troll Lady warned me about growing a dispatcher’s ass—see? This little vacation is already better for my health. Let someone else’s cellulite go forth and multiply in my vacant chair.

Roger holds a robe open for me. I step into it, and we walk toward the patio doors, his arm draped over my shoulders. “How long do you need to get ready?”

“Forty-five minutes? I need to dry my hair. Maybe wash the chlorine out,” I say, pulling a soaked strand to under my nose.

“Shall we meet in the lobby again, or would you like me to escort you from your room like a proper gentleman?” He’s asking for permission to come to my room. That could be dangerous. Deliciously dangerous.

Roger holds the door for me. The warmth of the lodge’s interior is welcome considering the sun is going to bed and the wind is coming out to play. “I’m in room 212. Meet me there in forty-five. Enough time to get yourself presentable,” I say, tugging his lapels to bring him closer. The toes of our sandals are touching, and he doesn’t hesitate to plant another kiss, this one teasing, just to the side of my lips.

“There’s more where that came from but first, food,” he says.

“Food first sounds good.”

He splits off and moves westerly, away from me, around the back of the front desk/office area. I’m floating, trying to remember when I’ve felt this stupid over the attentions of the male variety. It’s novel, this tingly-twittery feeling in my gut. Something I never experienced with Keith. We were a relationship of convenience. No spark, no sizzle. Then again, the guy had a lot to live up to—my ideal-relationship bar was set pretty high from watching too many romantic comedies and reading too much Jane Austen as an angst-ridden teenager. My own Mr. Darcy almost happened when I went on my first date at fifteen. Jory Angel. I’m not even kidding. That was his name. I liked him because he wore torn jeans and a leather biker jacket and his dad’s cologne and he didn’t give a shit what any of the other kids said about his wild black hair or his strange name or the tattoo he kept hidden from his preacher daddy. Held back a year, Jory got his license before the rest of us, so he drove us to the movies, no parent chaperone, and then to the now-defunct ice cream parlor with staff in old-fashioned red-striped shirts and straw boater hats, and then to the movie theatre still under construction where we squeezed through the security fencing and ran up and down the bare concrete inclines where the seats would eventually go, and then to his father’s tiny church where we broke in and he played the piano for me while I stretched out on a pew … it was pretty perfect.

Keith had a lot to live up to. I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.

“How was the water?” I’m yanked from my reverie.

“What?”

“The water. You’re dripping on the hardwood.” Concierge Ryan and his beard are smiling back at me.

“Oh. God. Sorry. Water’s great. I love this place.”

“It seems to love you too,” he says, nodding toward the hallway Roger disappeared into.