“Why, hello there, sweet cheeks.”
He was definitely not referring to the pair on my face.
I squinted up, using my hand as a visor against the sun. The guy in front of me looked like your typical frat boy, not a day over twenty, with a baseball cap turned backward, Hawaiian swim trunks, and a Bros Before Hos tattoo across his chest that I wagered his fraternity friends had inked themselves with, too.
“Name’s Dale.”
Of course it was. I bet when his mother had an ultrasound, all they saw inside her uterus was a cardboard sign that said douchebag.
“Nessy.”
“That’s a cute name. You from around here?”
Where would that be?
The middle of the Caribbean Sea?
“Look, I’m real flattered you saw my tush and didn’t think I was a twenty-nine-year-old overworked, underpaid single mother, but that’s what I am. So can we skip the chitchat, and may I suggest you try the waterpark across the deck? Lots of girls your age there.”
I was entirely too direct. But struggling single moms did not have the luxury of blipping around with flunk-boys.
“I don’t mind you’re twenty-nine.” He was rolling a swizzlestick from one side of his mouth to the other.
“Well, I do.” I let my head drop against the sunbed and turned it in the other direction, considering the conversation over.
It wasn’t that I was against dating men, but if I were to end a thirteen-year man-strike, it wasn’t going to be with Dale here, who found it fitting to ink himself with something so classless, even by my standards.
“Age’s just a number.”
“That’s a very romantic take.”
Pucking chit, would this guy ever leave?
“Oh, I’m not a romantic. I’m only looking for something casual, honey pie.”
“Thanks for clarifying. I was just debating what kind of diamond I want on my engagement ring.”
I was going to have to evacuate myself from the spot soon.
I couldn’t afford to brawl with someone on this boat. The Costellos were already watching me with hawk eyes, waiting for me to deliver the final blow to my reputation’s back and make them beg their son to cancel his engagement to my sister. And their informer, Cruz, was on this boat.
Nope. I was walking on thin ice as it was already.
Stumbling, more like.
“Damn, Nessy. Just give me a chance. I’ll make it good for you.”
Douchebag Dale placed his hand on my elbow, giving it a squeeze. I withdrew quickly, like he’d put fire to me. Maybe it was an exaggeration, but I hated men touching me.
Perhaps because the last man who had left me in the most vulnerable position I’d ever been in. Or maybe because it was far too common in Fairhope to pinch my waist or pat the small of my back—too close to my butt—to grab my attention when someone wanted to place an order with me.
“Don’t touch me!”
The words didn’t mean to sound like a whimper, but they came out like it, anyway.
“Sweetheart,” I heard a familiar, raspy brogue. One that couldn’t belong to just any ordinary mortal. Every inch of my flesh blossomed into pebbles, and the fine hair on my neck stood on end despite the sun pounding down on me. “There you are. Sorry I’m late. I decided to take the advanced jujutsu class after kickboxing.”
Before I knew what was happening, Douchebag Dale’s hand was off of my elbow, tossed away physically by another, much larger male hand.
Cruz landed on the edge of my sunbed, making it dip to one side. He was shirtless now, wearing a ball cap the correct and grown-up way.
I was glad I had my shades on, because now I could drink him in without him having the satisfaction of knowing I was looking.
His torso was mouthwateringly muscular, his skin golden and smooth. He had bulging arms, with veins that snaked all the way to his forearms. A thin strip of blond curls snaked from below his navel and disappeared somewhere under his shorts.
I wanted to follow that trail with my tongue.
I should really remember to charge my vibrator when I get back home.
Cruz polished a shiny red apple on his swim trunks, then took a juicy bite.
Slammed with this surprise lust toward Dr. Costello, and an unexplainable desire to switch places with his apple, I turned my head away and ignored both men.
“She your wife?” Douchebag Dale mumbled.
“The one and only,” Cruz replied. “The lucky Mrs. Weiner.”
“Weiner,” DD repeated, giving a Beavis-and-Butthead type snort.
“Problem?” Cruz asked.