The Beach

by R.S. Grey

  “I’ll wait for you to change,” he says, throwing a glance down my dress before I take a step back and quickly shut the door in his face. I pivot on my heels and press my back to it, squeezing my eyes shut.

  This is not going according to plan.

  I’ve been in paradise for like an hour and I’m already crumbling.

  I imagine what Natalie would tell me if she were here and if the man in question wasn’t her flesh and blood.

  Don’t take everything so seriously. Have fun! Be flirty! Enjoy your vacation!

  I listen to the fictional advice generated by my own psyche and pull out the skimpiest bikini from my luggage, the one I threw into my suitcase in a brazen you-go-girl, power moment. I didn’t think it’d see the light of day, but here I am tying the red strings around my neck and back and adjusting my cleavage in front of the mirror.

  Damn.

  Even I have to admit it’s sexy. The red color pops against my fair skin.

  It’s the exact opposite of how I usually look around Noah. Most of the time he sees me in my pink scrubs on my way to and from delivering babies. I’m generally wearing a floral-printed surgical cap and/or sporting leftover red lines on my cheeks thanks to the medical-grade face masks.

  I wink at my reflection then grab the hibiscus from the bathroom counter and reinsert it behind my ear. With my light blonde hair hanging down around my shoulders, I look like some kind of hot tropical goddess. Then my eyes land on the empty margarita glass and I wonder—briefly—if I only feel like a goddess because of the alcohol pumping through my system.

  I don’t have time to reconsider my bikini choice though because Noah calls my name from the living room and I’m forced to join him. I wrap a light sarong around my waist and then pause with my hand on the doorknob.

  Here goes nothing.

  Noah’s back is turned to me when I walk out, but when he glances back over his shoulder, his dark eyes do exactly what I hoped they would: smolder.

  His brows rise a half-inch in shock and then he flashes a confident, devilish smile that melts me from the inside out.

  “Nice bathing suit.”

  I respond with a This old thing? shrug that feels so wonderfully cool I can barely stand it. Go me! I think as I breeze past him to slide the glass door open and step out onto the terrace.

  It’s a hot afternoon, and without the ocean breeze, I’d be sweating bullets. Even with the breeze, I’m forced to pull my hair up off my neck and twist it into a bun as I walk out into the sand.

  I claim one of the hotel’s beach chairs and drop my magazine and sunglasses down onto the woven wicker fabric before untying my sarong. Noah watches me. I’m not looking at him, but I can see him in my periphery as he stands motionless next to the chair beside mine.

  I fold my sarong into a neat square and set it down on my chair.

  Only then do I realize I forgot to grab sunscreen.

  I glance up, and Noah waves a little tube of SPF 30 at me. Apparently, he came prepared.

  “Need some?”

  I nod and hold my hand out to take the bottle from him, but he points to the chair as if he wants me to take a seat.

  “You can do mine after,” he suggests, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world.

  We’ll just be two single adults, lathering each other up accompanied by the sound of waves breaking in the distance. It’s basically an ad for The Bachelor.

  Still, I don’t want to make it seem like I can’t handle him slapping some sunscreen onto my back, so I sit like he urges and then hold perfectly still as he situates himself behind me.

  I have about one inch of my butt cheek on the chair, barely perched on the edge so that I’m mostly holding myself up by my straining quad muscles.

  Noah realizes and reaches out to grab my waist, tugging me back in between his thighs.

  I’m nestled against him and a girlish whimper escapes my lips before I can clap a hand over my mouth. I clear my throat to cover it up, and thankfully, he doesn’t say anything.

  I listen as he pops the lid of the sunscreen and then rubs his hands together, warming up the lotion before he starts to apply it to my shoulders.

  His hands are big and practiced. He’s not a brute about it, careful to work the sunscreen up my neck and underneath the strings of my bikini. I let my head loll forward just a bit as his palms slide farther down my back. He gets more lotion and then his hands skim down my spine and back up the sides of my chest. His fingers get dangerously close to the outer edges of my breasts, but I don’t say a word. In fact, I take my bottom lip between my teeth to keep from embarrassing myself again.

  “You’ll fry out here if you’re not careful,” he warns. “The sun’s a lot stronger than it is in Boston.”

  “I know.”

  My body hums as his hands skate down my back to the edge of my bikini bottoms. His fingers carefully rub in the lotion there, brushing just below the material in case it shifts around while I’m swimming.

  “I’m trying not to miss any spots,” he tells me, and I swear there’s a new huskiness to his tone.

  Noah has never touched me like this. Never have his hands been on my bare skin beyond a simple handshake or high five.

  I’m dying.

  I want to bite down on something, squeeze my thighs shut, sequester myself in my room, and replay every aching second of this experience.

  I’m sad when he finishes, and it actually takes me a moment to realize he’s holding the tube of sunscreen over my shoulder so I can take it and finish putting lotion on the front of my body.

  Then, we switch spots.

  Noah sits down on the edge of the beach chair and I sit down behind him.

  For a little while, I just take him in, as if I’m surveying how best to approach my job of lathering him up. My eyes skate along the curve of his neck and strong shoulders, then down his muscled back.

  “You good back there?” he teases, cocking one brow up when he glances back to inspect me.

  “Turn around. I was about to start,” I chide, squirting some sunscreen into my hand quickly and starting to work it into his shoulders. He’s a big guy. It takes me a while to cover every inch of his back and shoulders and neck. And sure, maybe I take my sweet time.

  “Your hands feel good,” he tells me, rolling his neck forward. “I almost don’t want you to stop.”

  I swallow the urge to squeal and instead recommend that he get a massage while we’re here.

  “I’ve heard they’re really good, and you can request that they come right to your room.”

  He hums in interest. “Will you do it with me? I’d feel weird doing it by myself.”

  “Oh…I mean, sure. I guess.”

  “I’ll organize it when we get back to the villa.”

  Should we be doing that sort of thing? A couples massage? It sounds intimate, but then I have nothing to compare it to; I’ve never had one before. Maybe it’s not as bad as I’m making it out to be. It’s not like we’ll be alone—there’ll be masseuses in the room too.

  “All right,” I say, wiping the last bit of sunscreen onto the bottom of his back.

  I’m done.

  He groans as if in disappointment and then stretches up and off the beach chair. “Fine. Then c’mon, let’s go in the water.”

  “We should sit for a second and let it soak in.”

  He rolls his eyes but listens nonetheless, lying down on his chair and closing his eyes.

  I stare at him as he sunbathes, letting my gaze roam from his head to his toes. Sure, I pause for a moment too long on his swim trunks. I’m curious, more than anything.

  When I make it back up to his face, I’m shocked to find one of his eyes squinted open in my direction. My stomach squeezes tight knowing he’s caught my lazy inspection of him, but he doesn’t seem all that disturbed by it.

  “How long do we have to wait?”

  What a question.

  I know he’s talking about the sunscreen, but it feels like it could lead in
to a whole other conversation.

  This isn’t good.

  If I’m going to survive a week in paradise with Noah, I’m going to have to find something or someone else to distract me.

  “Just another minute or two. Hey, later, I was going to head down to the restaurant for dinner. There’s supposed to be dancing in the evenings and I think it could be fun. We could meet other people staying at the hotel.”

  I’m praying there will be other men there, someone to distract me from the man I really want most of all.

  “Sounds fun,” he says, pushing up off his chair and walking toward the water.

  Three

  After we get back from the beach, I soak in the tub in my bathroom, taking the time to shave and exfoliate with the complimentary salt scrub from the hotel’s spa. It leaves my skin feeling silky smooth as I step out of the bath and wrap myself up in a robe. I dry my hair and apply my makeup, keeping things simple with a tinted moisturizer, blush, and mascara. I swipe a dark pink stain across my lips and then scan through the dresses in my closet.

  I was agonizing over what to pack for this trip even long before I knew it would just be Noah and me. My busy schedule at the hospital leaves very little wiggle room for vacations, so when I take one, I like to go all out.

  An array of resort wear hangs before me, but I already have an outfit in mind. I reach for a dark green silk maxi dress with an off-the-shoulder drawstring tie that keeps the garment in place over my chest. The sharp side slits reveal a hint of my legs when I walk, and admittedly, the dress is a little too sexy. If I were on vacation with Natalie and Connor, I’d throw a jean jacket on over it. But, since I’m only going to dinner with Noah, I leave my shoulders bare.

  I finish the look off with a dainty gold necklace and simple wedges.

  Noah’s out on the terrace when I walk out of my room. He’s facing the ocean, nursing a beer, so he doesn’t notice me walking toward him. One of his hands is tucked into the pocket of his navy pants. The sleeves of his white button-down are rolled to his elbows, and his fancy brown leather watch reflects in the glass door as he brings his beer to his mouth for another sip.

  I slide the door open, and he turns back to me.

  “I’m ready if you are,” I say with a gentle smile.

  He nods and moves to follow me back into the villa.

  I don’t look back to watch him catch up to me on my way to the front door. I feel on edge. Nervous.

  Noah and I are going to dinner together. We got ready tonight to spend the evening alone, just the two of us. This dress is technically for him, and I wonder what he thinks of it.

  He doesn’t leave me wondering for long.

  “That dress is an invitation. You realize that, don’t you?” he says as we take the sandy path from our villa to the restaurant.

  Now that the sun has begun to set, the path is lit by tiki torches. Noah walks beside me, careful to brush away any overgrown foliage that might be in my way.

  “An invitation?”

  I act completely oblivious.

  “A man looks at a dress on a beautiful woman and immediately wonders how easy it’d be to take off, how easy it would be to pull up in a dark corner of crowded restaurant.”

  Even though his words have a way of heating my blood, I force a laugh. “Oh come on. It’s just a dress.”

  “That, Lindsey, is not just a dress.”

  I’m tempted to reach down and tug the neckline up an inch or two so there’s less cleavage, but that would be akin to admitting he’s right.

  “Well we are going out. It’s the perfect dress for my first night in Mexico.”

  He hums under his breath as the restaurant comes into view up ahead.

  Even with sunscreen, Noah got a tan from our afternoon on the beach. He’s freshly showered and I can smell his body wash as he presses his hand against my lower back to lead me into the restaurant.

  “I called ahead. It should be under Martin,” he tells the host before I can open my mouth.

  The man scans down a list of reservations, spots the name, and then nods reverently. “Of course. Right this way.”

  I’m intrigued by the fact that Noah called ahead. I didn’t think we needed to, but I’m glad he did because the restaurant is busy and we likely wouldn’t have gotten seated for a while.

  “Here you are,” the host says, sweeping his hand over an intimate table set for two with a cluster of votive candles lit in the center. A bottle of rosé is already chilling beside wine glasses, and Noah nods approvingly as if this is exactly what he asked for.

  “You arranged all this?” I ask as I sit down in the chair Noah tugs out for me.

  “I wanted to make sure we didn’t have to wait,” he says, trying to make it sound casual.

  It’s not. The bottle of rosé is my favorite brand. There’s no way they brought it by coincidence.

  “This was really nice of you,” I say as he takes the seat across from me.

  I’ve been in Natalie’s life long enough to know that Noah’s a rare breed. Romantic. Attentive. Addictive. For a brief instant, I allow myself to revel in the idea of being with a man like him, one who’s the exact opposite of Von. What would he be like on a date? In bed?

  As soon as the thought pops into my mind, Noah knows it.

  His gaze catches mine over the table, and maybe it’s the romantic atmosphere of the restaurant, maybe the glow of the candlelight or the effects of too much alcohol and sun in one day, but I swear Noah has a mischievous glint in his eyes.

  When the waiter comes to take our order, Noah suggests we order the chef’s special. I agree, not wanting to hunt through a list of entrees when I could be focused on him instead.

  It occurs to me that it’s slightly awkward to be alone with him. We’ve had dinner together plenty of times, but we’ve always had Natalie and Connor to act as a buffer.

  All the simple first-date questions—not that it’s a date!!—aren’t on the table. We know so much about each other already. It feels silly now to start at the beginning, though I think we should.

  “Do you want to play a round of twenty questions?”

  He smiles. “I’ve never played.”

  “It’s simple. I just ask questions and you have to answer them.”

  “And then what? It’s my turn?”

  I wink. “Sure, if you survive my questioning.”

  He relaxes back in his chair and nods for me to start.

  I go easy on him in the beginning.

  “Favorite food?”

  “Spaghetti and meatballs.”

  I smile. It’s a little funny considering he’s half French and half Spanish. I know his father’s job as a photojournalist forced them to move all over while he and Natalie were growing up, and I wasn’t expecting his answer to be so simple.

  “From a restaurant?” I ask.

  “Homemade. I’ll teach you sometime.”

  I ignore the swell of butterflies in my stomach, nod, and take a sip of my water.

  “Do you wish your parents had raised you overseas rather than in the States?”

  He shrugs. “It doesn’t really matter. We moved around so much for my dad’s work that I feel like I grew up everywhere.”

  “Do you prefer French or English?”

  He thinks on that for a moment. “French.” He pauses before adding, “In certain moments.”

  I shift in my chair, aware of what he’s hinting at. Hopefully he doesn’t notice my blush in the candlelight.

  “Favorite book?”

  “I don’t have just one. It’s too hard to pick.”

  “What’s the last concert you went to?”

  His eyes narrow as he thinks it over. “Does the symphony count? I went for a fundraiser last month.”

  I act offended. “Remind me to buy us all tickets to a decent show when we get back to Boston, something with cheap beer and a sound system that will make us all go deaf.”

  He laughs and I take my lip between my teeth as I scan the restaurant
, trying to think of another question. I see a couple not far from us, leaning in toward one another, eyes locked. The woman has her hand flat on top of the table and the man is tracing each one of her fingers. It feels surprisingly intimate, and it encourages me to ask a question that takes us in a slightly different direction.

  “What attracts you to a person?”

  When he doesn’t answer immediately, I glance back at him to find him studying me.

  “It’s not one thing,” he says, dragging his finger up and down through the condensation on his water glass. “It’s more in the way someone makes me feel. Electrified, excited…hungry. Maybe it’s physical, maybe mental. I don’t know.”

  It’s a good answer, but I want more. “C’mon. You’re not a butt guy?”

  He chuckles under his breath and shakes his head. “I tend to notice a woman’s legs first.”

  I cross mine beneath the table.

  “The idea of a pair of long legs, sliding apart…”

  NOAH.

  I look away quickly, trying to hide my reaction to his response. I’m not used to this side of him. It’s sexy and nerve-racking all at once.

  “Is it my turn yet?” he asks, leaning in toward me.

  “I haven’t been counting,” I admit. “Did I reach my limit already?”

  “No, but still…I’d like to go now.” When I don’t object, he continues, “Tell me, what’s the most spontaneous thing you’ve ever done?”

  My brows shoot up. “Spontaneous?”

  I try hard to think. I’ve always been a good girl. Good grades, good attitude. I’m an overachiever, a teacher’s pet. Spontaneity and I don’t really go hand in hand.

  “Does booking this trip count?” I ask with a weak smile.

  He frowns. “This was planned almost a year ago.”

  My shoulders sag. “Well it felt spontaneous at the time.”

  “Okay. Next question: have you ever had sex on the first date?”

  I laugh in shock. “You can’t ask that!”

  “Why not?”

  “I asked you about your favorite book!”

  “It’s not my fault you chose boring questions.”

  I narrow my eyes teasingly. “I resent that.”

  “Answer the question.”