1. Summer

1

SUMMER

Ten days ago

I am about to be busted.

Embarrassingly so. And—I hang my head in shame—deservedly so.

But, for the record, I don’t regularly check out guys’ packages.

That’s not my thing. I don’t really think that’s any woman’s thing. I’m pretty sure gawking at the goods doesn’t rank alongside knitting and candle-making in my female friends’ hobbies. Or, at least, not that they’d admit in public.

Except . . . I am doing it, and I can’t stop.

It’s just that . . . seriously? Tiny little bathing suits?

They’re impossible to look away from.

I literally have no idea how anyone is not supposed to notice a guy’s, ahem, outline when he gets out of a pool wearing only a Speedo.

How do Olympic diving judges focus on their job, or women across the beaches of Europe focus on anything else? Clearly, that’s why truly sophisticated European women always wear huge designer sunglasses.

Since you’re supposed to avert your gaze.

That’s what I’ve tried to do for the last minute.

I 100 percent averted my gaze as Oliver reached his sinewy arms for the metal ladder. As he rose out of the water. As he stepped away from the pool.

Because that’s the proper social protocol.

But it’s really hard to keep your gaze averted the entire time when you’re having a conversation with a guy while he’s wearing nothing but a Speedo.

And when he’s dripping wet.

I mean, all those droplets of water are taking their sweet time sliding down his tanned skin. Along his pecs, over the grooves of his abs, and just a little farther.

This is resist-tasting-the-cookie-batter hard. This is don’t-sing-along-to-“Bohemian Rhapsody” hard.

Just. Can’t. Do. It.

Also, there are extenuating circumstances here in the form of Oliver Harris. His form is an extenuating circumstance.

Six foot one. Built like the statue of David. Face carved by a sculptor too.

Did anyone look away when Daniel Craig got out of the water in his first James Bond film?

I rest my gaze.

I mean, I rest my case .

I snap my gaze up, meeting Oliver’s eyes. Those damn green eyes that are twinkling with mischief.

“So, does that work for you?” I ask, adopting the most casual tone I can. The kind of tone that says, I was so not looking at you as I totally focus on scheduling a get-together to discuss my new business venture.

His grin twitches.

Then, my longtime friend, in all his wet, toned, nearly naked glory, simply arches a brow, points to his irises, and dryly says, “You do know my eyes are up here?”

Dammit.

Caught red-handed.

I improvise, pointing to the pool behind him. “I was just looking in the shallow end. I was sure I saw Mrs. Wilson’s rose-gold bracelet at the bottom. She thought she lost it during the water aerobics class I just taught.”

So plausible. I could invent excuses for a living, surely.

He nods slowly, an I call bullshit nod. “Right. Did you want to go have a look? Pop into the water? Organize a search party?”

I tap my chin as if considering all three, then shake my head. “It was just wishful thinking. I looked pretty closely after class.” I sigh forlornly over the missing jewelry.

Magnanimously, he offers the goggles in his hand. “I insist. It’s Mrs. Wilson’s prized bracelet after all. Let’s have another go, shall we? I’ll help you. We’ll be like scuba divers searching for buried treasure.”

I’d give him points for holding his ground if he wasn’t holding it against me.

But I maintain the oh-so-innocent facade as I gesture to my jeans and sky-blue blouse. “No. I’m already dressed for work. Busy day at the residence. Thank you though. I’ll just let Lost and Found know to keep an eye out.”

He hooks his thumb toward the glistening water. A few solo swimmers power up and down the freestyle lanes. “Want me to jump in? Have a quick check?”

I wave him off. “No worries. I’ll find it later.”

“Are you sure? Might give you a better view of my arse. I’d appreciate an appraisal.”

And the sexy Brit wins the battle of wills.

I have no choice but to give him the all-the-way-to-Jupiter eye roll. “No need. I made my assessment that time you streaked naked across my backyard when we were sixteen. It’s a five, maybe a six on a good day.”

He peers over his shoulder at the backside in question, then parks his hands on his hips. “I beg your pardon. This is a top-notch arse here.”

I cross my arms and chuckle at the way he set up my victory shot. “Yes, indeed. I am definitely checking out a top-notch arse.”

Like a cartoon character muttering curses, he says under his breath, “Touché, woman. Touché.”

He steps toward me, shrugs a muscled shoulder, and gives me a smile from his cache of them—this one I’ve dubbed the disarming one . “Truth be told, I don’t mind if you gawk at the crown jewels. I wouldn’t tell you to look away from the works of art if you were at the Louvre.”

“Less like masterpieces and more like Velvet Elvises and paintings of dogs playing poker.”

The corner of his lips curves up. Why is it that infuriatingly good-looking men all have lopsided grins? Is it a standard feature when they’re assembled in the too-hot-for-words factory? Is it a custom order, or part of the Unfairly Handsome Package?

“Summer,” he chides gently. “You’ve been doing it since we were fourteen.”

Back then, I might have given in to the urge to swat him, but I don’t now. Instead, I grit my teeth, dig my heels in, and remind myself that even though he is the living, breathing embodiment of cocky male in the city, he is also the guy who has saved me many times.

And I’ve saved him more than once too.

But at the moment, I need to save face. I march to the nearby bench and grab one of the pieces of white cardboard they call gym towels here. Returning, I hand it to Oliver, raising my chin. “There. Now no one can admire the goods, such as they are.”

With an I’m about to give it right back to you chuckle, he takes the towel and pointedly refrains from wrapping it around his waist.

The cheeky fucker.

He drapes it over his shoulders then saunters to the side of the pool and leans against the wall, beckoning me. I follow, of course, because I need something from him.

Desperately.

“Tell me exactly what it is you need me to do this time,” he says. “Escort you to the wedding of a jackass you once dated? Train with you for a 10K to benefit Alzheimer’s? Or just look absolutely fantastic when I get out of the water?”

I huff. How can he be so endearing and such an ass at the same time? “Do you practice that, Oliver?”

He arches a brow. “You mean being the knight in shining armor? Or the way I always manage to get your goat?”

“Both,” I say with a laugh.

He scratches his jaw. “It’s a unique talent, I suppose. Being devilishly charming at all hours, no matter the circumstances.” Then he tugs me in close, roping an arm around me. A very wet arm, soaking my work shirt. “You know I’m just teasing you. You are literally the most delightful person to tease because I never know what you’ll do. Either you look like you want to clobber me, or you laugh and go along with it. Keeps me on my toes.”

I wriggle away from him, eyeing the wet splotches on my blouse. “Devil is indeed the appropriate word.”

“And you’re such an angel?” His green eyes flash me a pointed look.

“You know I’m not.” I shift gears and gesture toward the women’s locker room. “But I need to get to work. I have to complete some of the final paperwork for the new fitness center, and I’m hoping I might be able to borrow your brain tonight. Pretty please?”

He rolls with the topic change. That’s the thing about Oliver and me—we’ve worn so many hats with each other that we exchange them with ease. “My brain is always available for the borrowing. See you after work. Can we go to the Melt My Heart place?” He puts his palms together in a plea, adopting a doe-eyed look that makes me laugh.

“Since when do you like specialty shop franchises you’d normally mock?”

He affects a serious expression. “I’m considering it for my last-meal list.”

“You’re back to that?”

“I was off it for a while, but it amuses me, so I’ve returned to it. Don’t you have things you do that amuse you?”

I tap his nose. “Yes. Talking to you. See you later.”

As I head to the women’s locker room, he says my name. “Summer?”

I turn around.

He raises an arm, leans to the side, and stretches, his muscles glistening as he moves, his abs looking lickable, his torso gleaming, toned and smooth. “Let me know when you find that missing bracelet. I’m sure Mrs. Wilson is terribly worked up over it.”

I rein in a revealing smirk, holding tight to my lie. “Of course.”

He heads to the men’s locker room, and I do not stare at his butt until he leaves my line of sight.

I do not stare at his butt.

I do not . . . oh hell, the man just has a great ass.

Like, Louvre quality.

It’s only exceeded by his commitment to besting me, since he calls out, “Oh, hello there, Mrs. Wilson. Can I help you find your bracelet? What’s that? You left it in my locker? You naughty bird, you.”