His cheekbones flushed pink, and he swung his gaze to the pool.
“You’re wearing shades,” he said.
“Then look elsewhere.”
“Already on it.”
“They’re not fake, you know.”
I sniffed. It was one of the many rumors about me around Fairhope. That I got myself a new pair of tits for my eighteenth birthday to try to bag a wealthy husband who’d accept my toddler son as a package deal.
In truth, my breasts just never fully bounced back （pun definitely intended） from being Bear’s open buffet for the two years I breastfed him （formula costs a fortune）。
“I never bought into those rumors.”
“Then why were you looking?” I challenged.
“Because I’m a red-blooded man, and you’re…” He stopped himself from finishing the sentence.
“What?” I asked, almost frantically.
Up until a second ago, I found it impossible to believe he found me more attractive than a warm bucket of spit.
“Nothing.”
I ripped the shades from my face, swinging my legs across the sunbed and sitting up straight. My harlot smile was scarlet-red and on full display.
“What am I, Cruz?”
“Hot,” he said gruffly, his voice low and measured and full of the things he wanted to do to me. “Extremely hot.”
“You think?”
“Now you’re just fishing.”
“Humor me,” I pouted.
“Why?”
He rubbed the bridge of his nose, which was slightly pink in comparison to the rest of his bronze self.
Ha!
So Cruz Costello didn’t get an amazing tan all over. This insignificant imperfection made me feel way more happy than I should.
“Because we have eight more days after today to spend together in a stateroom the size of a postage stamp, and I want to know what to expect.”
“An abundance of alone time and zero hanky-panky.”
“You just said hanky-panky.” I may or may not have giggled.
“You say gasshole, lady. And I’m leaving.”
But he didn’t stand up, and I suspected I knew why. My eyes slid down to his crotch.
He shifted on the orange Moroccan deck chair, crossing his legs.
I pouted, pretending not to notice. “Not good enough for you, am I?”
“You’re full of bull, Tennessee Lilybeth Turner. You wouldn’t have me if I were the last man on Earth.”
He remembered my middle name.
A flutter passed under my belly button.
“And why do you think that is?”
“Because you hate men.” His ’stache twitched. “All of them. No exceptions. We scare you. You do realize Bear’s going to grow up to become one, too, right?”
Yes, and I’d rather not think about it.
There was a beat of silence. I didn’t deny his analysis. There was no point.
We both leaned back on our sunbeds, watching people doing laps in the pool, couples making out and splashing one another.
“What’re you thinking about?” he asked after a few minutes.
“Why’re you asking?”
“You always think about weird stuff. Like that pearl thing. The blister story.”
“That’s a hard fact, Dr. Costello.”
“Well.” He tipped his ball cap down, like a cowboy, a smile tugging on his lips under his perfect mustache. “Indulge me.”
I frowned. “I’m thinking there are so many germs and semi-exposed genitalia happening in this water every single day. There’s absolutely no way on Earth you’ll find me inside a cruise ship’s pool.”
He laughed.
“What are you thinking about?” I asked.
“That you’re different from what I thought,” he said. “Very different.”
“Whatever,” I answered, because he didn’t seem like he said it in a bad way, but frankly, I had enough pride that I didn’t want to be caught fishing for compliments twice in ten minutes.
“So. Wanna have dinner together? A friendly dinner,” he asked.
“You’re buying.”
“It’s free.”
I sighed. “The drinks, too?”
“I’m afraid so.”
A woman walked by in a fancy dress.
“Then how about a nice Prada dress? I really do want to live the kept woman life, even if only for a day.”
“That’s a no.”
“Ugh.” I rolled my eyes. “You’re a clappy husband, Mr. Weiner.”
“And you have a weird aversion to profanity.”