Soaked (The Water's Edge #2) (8 page)

And Nick, oh, he was enjoying himself.

The twinkle in his eye and the way he laughed at my discomfort made it clear he’d known all along who the surfer was. The bastard.

I was mortified. And felt oddly guilty, like I’d somehow betrayed Rue by noticing just how gorgeous Grady was. I mean, he wasn’t West, but
damn,
she had pretty good taste when it came to him. She could deny it all she wanted to, but she couldn’t stop staring at him whenever he was around.

Dancing lessons later that night were even worse. Although, at least Nick wasn’t there for those.

I was stiff and stepped on Grady’s toes repeatedly, half a beat behind the music. I miscounted the steps, turning left instead of right, crashing into him and knocking us into another couple. He’d finally given up and taken me aside, waving at the instructor to continue without us.

“Are you okay? You’ve seemed off since lunch with Nick. Has he done something? I can have a word with him if I need to.” Grady shook his head in exasperation. “He’s always been a relentless flirt around pretty girls.”

I shook my head in denial, my cheeks warming. “No. He’s fine. I . . . I was just embarrassed by how much better than me he was when we worked together this morning.” I improvised on the fly, hoping he bought it.

Looking unconvinced, he studied my face. “He told me he was going to try to work with you some while you’re here. I thought you might be excited to work with someone of his caliber, but if he’s a problem, I need you to let me know. I told West I’d look out for you while we’re here.”

The mention of West threw me. And pissed me off. I didn’t need
looking after.

I counted to five and forced myself to take a deep breath. It didn’t help. “West lost that right when he chose Aubrey over me.” I enunciated each word, trying to keep my anger in check.

Grady bit back a grin. “Easy, tiger. Don’t kill the messenger.”

“I’ll give you a message for him,” I muttered. “I don’t even need words. Just one finger.”

“I’ll be sure to pass that along.” He tried to smother his laugh. “But seriously, about Nick—everything okay there?”

I hesitated, but nodded. I was a big girl. He wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle myself.

But speaking of messengers . . .

A flash of inspiration struck. I’d email the pictures of Grady to Rue, as a present. And I’d leave the face shots until last. Although I doubted it would take her nearly as long as it did me to realize who the surfer was. I had a feeling she was more familiar with his body than she led me to believe.

Finally able to relax, at ease with my conscience knowing I wouldn’t be hiding anything from my best friend, Grady and I struggled through a few new salsa moves, building on the basics we’d learned last night. He returned the favor from earlier, crushing my toes under his feet as we worked through the different elements.

As I looked down, concentrating on the steps, I had another epiphany. Something I hadn’t noticed during my photo session that morning.

And I couldn’t stop my smile.

No wonder Rue couldn’t seem to move on from whatever history there was between them.

Grady had some big ass feet.

WHEN I OPENED
my laptop the next morning to send the pictures to Rue, I already had an email waiting for me. A workout routine—complete with playlist—courtesy of Theo who warned
pics or it doesn’t count
and gloated that I’d thank him when I didn’t come back from vacation with a lard ass from lazing away in paradise. Theo was probably my closest friend after Rue and also my personal trainer. It was because of him working my ass off on a regular basis that I could indulge in my Krispy Kreme habit. He also mentioned I should expect another workout email tomorrow.

Well, yay.

But . . . he had a point. There might not be doughnuts here, but I wasn’t exactly watching my calories. I pinched my stomach and wrinkled my nose.

After sending the shots of Grady to Rue with the simple subject line “You’re welcome,” I grudgingly put on workout clothes and headed to the resort gym. Better to just get it over with for the day.

Turned out, someone else had the same idea. Nick was there—in all his sweaty glory—on the treadmill just inside the door, three-and-half miles into a workout, according to the red digital numbers. Damn overachiever.

Except, wait. Theo’s words came to mind and, without a word of explanation to Nick, who was watching me quizzically, I snapped a quick photo of the treadmill’s workout summary display.

Photographic proof of a workout. Maybe it wasn’t
my
workout, but now I had back-up if this session hurt as bad as I expected it to.

Tugging his earbuds out, Nick slowed to a fast walk. He pointed to my phone. “What was that about?”

“My trainer.” I stepped on an elliptical in the corner and began warming up. “He said I owed him three miles of cardio today. With photographic proof. Plus, it’s arm day.”

He smirked. “Do you have to send him proof of that too?”

“Weights are on the honor system.” I tried to look offended, but knew I failed when he laughed at me.

“You’re clearly very trustworthy.”

“Yup.” I popped my earbuds in and scrolled to the playlist I’d downloaded that morning. I had to smile—Theo remembered my penchant for organizing my music by letter. This one was chock full of J’s. Jason Derulo, Justin Timberlake, and Justin Beiber.

“Need me to spot you for anything?”

I shook my head. “I’ll be fine, but thanks. I don’t want to hold you up.”

He shrugged and nudged the speed back up on the treadmill. I could see him out of the corner of my eye, but after the first few songs, as I got into the zone, I forgot about him.

My mind wandered inevitably to West. Wondering what he was doing today, if he missed me, if his bed had felt just as empty as mine had last night. I daydreamed my way through an encounter where, instead of freezing like a deer in the headlights when I saw West carrying Aubrey in his arms in Charleston, I confronted them, and he obligingly dumped her overboard and whisked me away to the Caribbean aboard the
Vitamin Sea.
The newspaper ran the appalling story of Aubrey Perotti showing her face in public without looking pageant-ready, and she had an allergic reaction to her sunscreen which resulted in a permanent skin disfigurement, a red oblong phallic inflammation that started on her nose and extended to her forehead. People began calling her Dickhead behind her back, not that I ever saw her again.

Hell, no. I was busy. Days upon days of makeup sex followed, where my flexibility and loud enthusiasm became legendary at the marina we docked at. A winning lottery ticket extended the spur-of-the-moment trip indefinitely, and we eloped a month later under a tropical, starlit sky, complete with a towering Krispy Kreme doughnut wedding cake, after which we had more days upon days of history-making honeymoon sex. I gave Gumby a run for his money, had enviable thigh gap, and became multi-orgasmic.

I sighed.

Three miles later—yes, on my own, stupid conscience—I captured the requisite proof on my phone and collapsed on the mats, breathing hard.

Nick’s concerned face appeared above me, sweat dripping off his chin and on to me. I blinked in surprise, and, wrinkling my nose, scooted farther back. “You’re getting me all wet!” Okay, yes, I was already damp from my own workout, but him dripping on me like that was just plain gross.

“Finally. You admit it.” He ran his gaze over my panting body, lingering on my heaving chest. “Looks like I’ve stolen your breath too.”

I rolled my eyes, but accepted his outstretched hand and let him pull me to my feet.

Holding on to a nearby weight machine for balance, I tucked my foot up to my butt and stretched my quads. “You’re still here.” Two points for stating the obvious.

He smirked. “I’ve been enjoying the scenery.”

I ignored him and switched legs. If watching me jiggle was the best view he could find in this resort, he needed an eye exam. And a new line.

Opening up Theo’s email again, I scanned the list of exercises he’d sent me. This gym didn’t have a wall of mirrors like I was used to, but I didn’t need them to check my form. Instead, floor-to-ceiling windows faced the ocean, giving the whole workout area more of a Zen-like vibe.

I hefted a light set of weights and commenced punishing my triceps for my indiscretions at the dessert table yesterday. Arm day sucked.

Thirty minutes later, stretching my exhausted muscles one last time, I glanced around. Two other people were powering through their workouts, matching looks of sheer joy on their faces. Ugh. They were
those
kind of workout people. And Nick was still there, his expensive camera pointed right at me.

I yanked my earbuds out and reflexively put my hand over my face, blocking his shot. “What are you doing?”

He lowered the camera, switched it to display mode, and handed it over to me. “I would’ve thought it was obvious.” His grin was positively roguish.

Scowling, I flipped through a couple dozen shots of
me.
He’d captured tight close-ups, much like I’d taken of Grady the day before. The sleek flex of my arm. The strong line of my spine as I bent over for triceps rows. The curve of my throat as I’d tipped my face up to catch my breath.

And I looked . . . hot. More than hot, I looked strong, toned . . .
sexy.

I was stunned. This was not what I saw when I looked in the mirror.

“I’m good, aren’t I?” He loomed over my shoulder, looking at the images with me. His ego ruined it.

Turning, I shoved the camera at him, catching him in the stomach. “I didn’t give you permission to take those.”

“I didn’t ask.” He raised his eyebrows and looked amused.

I rubbed my arm across my forehead, sweat dripping down my body. I felt gross and sticky. I knew I smelled. It was like his pictures had captured an alternative reality, where I glistened and followed a Paleo diet and got an appropriate amount of sleep every night. It was pretty, but it wasn’t real.

“Not cool, Nick. Do we need to set some basic ground rules here?”

He looked at his camera, then me, through eyes that downright shone with mischief. “I’ll tell you what. Next time I take sexy photos of you, it’ll be because you asked me to. Is that good enough?”

I laughed. “And what makes you think I’d ever do that?” I drained the rest of my water bottle and wiped my neck with a towel.

He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Because I think you like the way I see you. And you like the way it makes you feel knowing I see you like that. Hot, damp—”

I smacked him with my
hot, damp
towel and narrowed my eyes.

He chuckled. “Meet me for breakfast in thirty minutes. Today’s lesson involves food.”

BREAKFAST WAS SERVED
buffet style, and after Theo’s workout, I piled my plate high—although I avoided the pancakes because they made me think of West and the time he’d made them for me.

I settled into the chair next to Nick, who was already digging into a veggie omelet, and a waitress set a glass of orange juice and coffee down in front of me. I turned to refuse the juice but she was already walking away. When I faced the table again, Nick was looking at me oddly.

“What?” I asked.

He pointed to my beverages with his fork.

A small, folded paper plane was tucked between my orange juice and coffee mug.

He started to reach for it, but I snatched it up, glancing at it long enough to confirm that West’s handwriting was scrawled across the paper, and shoved it into the pocket of my khaki shorts.

“Did the waitress bring this?” I glanced at him, the hair on the back of my neck standing up.

He shrugged around a mouthful of eggs. “I guess? It wasn’t here when I sat down.”

How did they know how to find me? How did he arrange this?
I bit my lip and looked around. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

“He’s good.” Nick’s words drew my attention back to him.

“Who’s good?”

“Him. Paper airplane guy. That’s a slick move there.”

“How do you know it’s from a guy?”

He leveled an exasperated look at me. “Who am I supposed to think it’s from? Your fairy godmother?” He snickered.