7. Sam

Being here with Greg again was a mistake. I knew it as soon as I saw him, but he was just so irresistibly hot in his tight shorts and shirt. Watching him with Big Blue, I swoon a bit—unfair really. I spent years mastering not getting thrown off by even the smallest wave, and here he is, making it look like he's acing his audition for Surfer'sWeekly. Greg handled the surfboard like he was meant to do it.

Briefly, I think about leaving him to find his own way back to the shop, but I find myself waiting on the sand instead. When he jogs up, looking like an advertisement for pure man candy and clearly aroused, I struggle to keep my laughter in. He's tried to hide it, but Greg is, well, Greg—some things just can't be hidden.

"Can I rinse you off?" he offers with a playful tone. I shake my head, pretending indifference, but lead the way to the beachside showers. I let the freshwater run over me, feeling his gaze before his touch. "Seaweed," he says. His eyes are wide and unblinking, like he's found a gold bar in the rats nest of ocean tossed hair on top of my head rather than some salad of the sea. Where his fingers touch, it burns, igniting something within me. He turns to rinse himself off, leaving me in a mix of irritation and desire. We're playing a strange game of temptation, and I'm quickly losing ground.

The urge to wrap myself around him pulses through me. Memories of our night together flash in my mind, intensifying my need for him. I want him in all the devious ways possible.

Instead, I watch him. As he removes his rash guard under the shower, water droplets tracing down his abs, I reach out without thinking. My fingers trail down his toned muscles, eliciting his immediate reaction. But he flips around with a laugh. It's clear we're challenging each other—who can resist the longest? Right now, I'm not doing so well.

Still under the open-air shower, I decide to up the ante, sliding out of my swim shorts to reveal my daring bikini underneath. Even as he tries to look away, I catch him sneaking a glance over his shoulder, his face turning beet red.

Instead of closing the distance between us, I shut off the shower, grab my board and shorts, and start jogging back towards the surf shack, Greg quickly following. The lesson might be over, and I'm somewhat glad. He needs to take his delicious abs, his surfing talents, and his undeniably adorable smile somewhere far away from me.

But he catches up, holding his board as if he's done it a thousand times. "You hungry? I'd love to take you out for lunch."

"Can't. Working." It's all I can manage to say, and even those few words I half choke on. My brain is screaming that I shouldn't go anywhere with Greg, but my lady bits are yelling at my brain, and it's becoming a confusing mess within my own body.

If he's disappointed, he doesn't let on. We hurry across the hot pavement to get back to the surf shop. I hurry inside, finding Tilly at the bar.

"Hey Sammy," she greets me, but her attention snaps to Greg when he follows me in. She nearly chokes on her snack. "Hot bar guy?"

Greg gives her a narrowed look. "Have we met? Or is that just what you say to everyone?"

"Tilly, this is Greg from the other night. Greg, meet my best and most annoying friend, Tilly," I introduce them, a smile playing on my lips.

He offers a sheepish wave, and I'm already pointing towards the back. "You've got a surf lesson in ten. I'm gonna change real quick." Tilly's struck speechless, it seems, but she manages to nod. I hurry to the back of the store, my nerves a jumbled mess. Already, I'm bracing for her inevitable interrogation, trying to figure out how I'm going to dodge her questions. But who the hell am I kidding? I'm no politician. She'll get the truth out of me easily. So instead, I'll just avoid her.

Once inside the first stall, I begin peeling off my wet swimsuit, but my thoughts are miles away, back on Greg's couch, drowning in a sea of longing. It's almost impossible not to touch myself right there in the changing room, especially with the way he looked at me earlier. But I resist the urge, telling myself it will be far better and safer to do something about the throbbing in my own body later when I'm actually alone.

As I towel off, a soft knock, barely audible above the store's ambient noise, catches my attention. Spinning around, I crack open the door and peek out.

Greg stands there, his eyes and smirk suggesting he's on the same wavelength as me.

"You sure you don't want lunch?" Damn him and his strategic use of personal space. He backed off just long enough for me to miss the weird magnetic pull he has on me. Yes, I want lunch—and maybe dinner, breakfast, and a snack. Not necessarily in that order and not all of it food.

I nod, and like fucking magic, his grin goes full supernova—so bright, I'm actually concerned about my retinas. "Let's go then. My treat," he says.

Closing the door again, I hurriedly throw my clothes on. As I shimmy into my shorts, I try to downplay what's happening. "Just lunch, not a marriage proposal" I whisper to myself. But as soon as I step out and see him, hands in his pockets, hair wet on his forehead, wearing the biggest most adorable smile, I know I'm lying to myself. Still, that doesn't stop me from wanting to go. Shaking my head, I trail behind, lost in thought about how this has to be the dumbest thing I've done in eight years.