Problematic Summer Romance (Not in Love, #2)(43)

“Um, Lucrezia has been wagging her finger very insistently at me and…is my suit too revealing?”

I pull my towel open. Conor glances down at my bikini, a reflex, and freezes, like a wild animal caught in the light would, and—

It’s like it hadn’t occurred to him. That there would be a body inside the swimsuit. My body. His stare is heavy and blatant and profoundly still. It lasts a hiccup of a moment. Then a seagull screeches over our heads, and he rips his eyes away.

Blood rushes to my cheeks. “I have another. A one-piece. I can go get it, if she…”

“That’s not…Let me find out,” he says, husky, before asking Lucrezia about the problema. He listens for a few moments. Turns with a small smile. “Lucrezia is very worried about you.”

“Is it because I am a…harlot?”

“Did you just use the word ‘harlot’?”

“I was going to say ‘whore,’ but it didn’t sound churchy enough.”

“This has nothing to do with churchiness. Or with your suit.”

“What, then?”

“If you go swimming in the ocean within two hours of eating you are going to drop dead.” Lucrezia adds something else, and he translates, “All your blood will be in your stomach, digesting. There will be none left in your limbs, and you will sink like a stone.”

I scratch my temple. “Tell her that doesn’t sound right.”

Conor snorts. “I will not do such a thing.”

“It’s a thoroughly debunked myth.”

“The science hasn’t reached Italy, clearly. And I am not going to contradict Lucrezia, Maya. About anything, ever.”

I edge forward, glaring at him. “Aww. You scawed? Of the cute middle-aged lady?”

“I am, and not too proud to admit it.”

“Thank her for her concern, but I’ll be fine. I’m a good swimmer.”

Another quick exchange in Italian, that culminates in: “She reminds you that this area has lots of unexpected currents. And she wants me to keep an eye on you and rescue you when you inevitably begin drowning.”

I look her in the eye. “Sadly, Lucrezia, Conor is much more likely to hold my head underwater than to—Ouch.” He’s pinching the back of my arm so tight, I’m going to have bruises. “This hardly disproves my point,” I hiss through gritted teeth.

“But it proves mine.”

“Which is?”

“That you should be quiet. And do as Lucrezia says.”

“But I want to—”

With an arm around my shoulder, he pulls me into him. Tells Lucrezia something that sounds disturbingly like a promise, and then turns us both toward the makeshift field where the others are idling with a ball. Our feet slip through the sand, his heat pressed into my bare flank, and the scent of pine and sunblock fills my nose. His forearm hangs down my collarbone, right above the swell of my breast.

“Come on, Trouble.”

“What is happening?”

“I’m kidnapping you. Just to spare Lucrezia’s peace of mind.”





Chapter 18




I beg my heart to slow the hell down. “Where are we going?”

“To play the best sport in the world.”

“I don’t think we can figure-skate on sand.”

“Football, Maya.”

“Your football, or ours?”

“You have no football, just an organized system of overgrown men giving each other CTE.”

“Soccer, then. Well, thank you for the offer, but I take issue with team sports as a construct—”

“Hey, guys,” he announces. “Maya’s playing with us.”

Eli’s eyes turn to slits. He observes me from across the sand, skeptical. “You sure that’s a good idea?”

“Why not?” Conor pulls away, shrugging. “Diego, okay if she’s with you, Eli, and Axel? I’ll be with Sul and Paul.”

Diego gives me the thumbs-up and a wide smile. “Hope you’re ready to give it your all on the path to victory.”

I’m not even willing to give a third of my all—at least, that’s the intention. Unfortunately, anything with a remotely competitive bent sucks me in harder than a black hole. Fifteen minutes later, I’m very invested in the outcome of this inconsequential and severely dumbed-down game of soccer. Too invested.

I don’t like the person that I become when faced with the prospect of losing. Resist it, I beg my weak self. You’re stronger than this.

Then again, what if I’m not? And what if the fault lies in Axel and in subpar efforts? “Hey, Staph Boy?” I snarl after he fails to intercept the ball.

“Yeah?”

“Not a threat or anything, but if you don’t use your legs to run faster, someone might decide to cut them off.”

His expression is cowardly and not at all NHL-befitting. “W-what?”

“And they might feed them to the jellyfish hanging out in the shallow waters. The ones over there. Just saying—”

“That’s it,” Eli intervenes, facing me, hands on his hips. It gives me portentous You’re fourteen and I’m about to take away your Dr Pepper privileges flashbacks. “Maya, out.”