I reach for his hand, taking it in mine and bringing it to my lips, kissing his thumb knuckle. When I chance a look at his face, he’s biting back a grin. The little shit. He knew.
“Are you going to tease me all day?” I ask. “You realize you were, like, two inches away from making me launch myself into your lap.”
He bursts out laughing, looking at me and then away. “You’re so soft. I didn’t realize what I was doing until you moved my hand.” He pauses and blows out a slow breath. “I’m thinking the beach was a terrible idea.”
“Like I said earlier?”
He laughs again and squeezes my hand. Given that we’re exiting the freeway toward the beach cities, his realization—one I voiced almost as soon as we got in the car—comes too late. At least I have the weather to distract me from my lusty brain. It’s one of those ridiculously gorgeous Southern California days in April: breezy, hazy morning skies, temperature hovering around sixty-five, but when the marine layer burns off, it will be perfect for a day at the beach.
We fly down the Pacific Coast Highway, practically alone on the long stretch of coastline, and then Alec turns us down a winding street into a neighborhood of beautiful houses perched precariously on a cliff. Cars pack the curbs, parked bumper to bumper, and I imagine us walking a mile loaded down with all the stupid gear we bought at Walgreens. But then we see it in unison, a spot directly next to the stairs leading down to Crescent Bay Beach.
“Well,” he says smugly, “that was easy.”
But, I think, that’s exactly the problem. Everything about this feels too easy. Like the way he stroked my leg without thinking. Like climbing out of the car and handing over my purse without thinking, him taking it and stowing it in his backpack also without thinking. Like unloading the car, wordlessly packing things up in easy silence like we’ve done this a thousand times. But in reality, today is our first time together out in daylight.
“When was the last time you were here?” I ask.
He leads us to the narrow, steep steps. “Probably a week or two before we moved.”
“Moved to London?”
He nods, carefully navigating the wooden slats, still damp from morning dew. “Do you ever come down here?”
“You know how it is,” I say. “It’s an hour drive, but Orange County might as well be New York.”
This makes him laugh, and I watch his toned legs descend, muscles bunching and relaxing beneath the length of his black swim trunks. I tear my attention away, looking up to the sky, out to the endless stretch of the blue Pacific. It seems to go on forever.
Get in a boat, I think. Live with this man, out there, forever. We could exist solely on granola bars.
At the bottom of the steps, he hangs a left, walking toward a stretch of smooth white sand bordering the rocky, craggy southern boundary of the beach. He walks with purpose, heading, I presume, to a favorite spot. But frankly, we have our pick of spots. It’s only eight thirty; the beach is busy, but not with people looking to set up for the day on the sand; instead, it’s surfers catching the choppy morning waves, couples strolling together, people walking their dogs, joggers. The surf is high, water crashing down with showy bravado, painting staggered half-moons on the wet sand.
We unload against the cliff, in an area that will be shady at midday. After he sets up our chairs, our towels, and the flimsy beach umbrella he bought, he turns to survey our new plot, and I pull my T-shirt off, squirting some sunscreen into my hand to put on my chest and stomach.
It feels quiet, like heavily quiet, and when I look up, Alec’s eyes are on my body. I start to crack a joke about him and my boobs, but his expression is so focused the words evaporate on my tongue. He reaches forward to adjust my necklace where the clasp has slid to the front, but once he’s fixed it, his fingers slow and it feels like everything grows blurry around us as his gaze grows unfocused on my neck.
“What?” I look down, trying to see what he sees. Nothing there but the vague sheen of sunscreen.
“Just thinking,” he says, dragging his touch down over my breastbone, between my breasts.
“Thinking what?”
He exhales slowly. “That I’ve felt you here. That I fucked you here.”
These words light a fire beneath my skin I’m sure he can feel under his fingertips. He angles his fingers down, like he might simply slip his entire hand into the cup of my bikini top, but then makes a fist around the strap instead.
“Okay.” I press my hand to his chest, and he lifts his head. “I think we need some ground rules today. Like…”