“Oh.”
“This sucks.” He drains the last of his beer. “Wanna get out of here, darlin’?”
“You have a boat?”
“I’m fixin’ to go swimmin’.” He stands up, holding his hand out to me.
“It’s freezing.”
He doesn’t move his hand away.
“I don’t swim in public,” I try again.
“You’re shittin’ me?” He sits back down in the chair next to mine. For a beat, he considers the remaining beer in the jug on the table before downing the contents straight from the container in two big gulps. He grins at me when the alcohol’s all gone, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He must be drunk—I’ve never seen prissy Keats behave like a Neanderthal before, nor sound more like a cowboy. “Didn’t you represent our elementary school at state level?”
“No. Just regionals.” My dad didn’t want to pay to send me to Cairns for the state championships that year.
“See. You’ve swum in public before.” He stands up again, hand extended to me with an expectant expression.
“I was twelve.”
“You were good. Come on.”
“It’s night time and you’re drunk. Isn’t this the opening sequence to Jaws?”
“Close.” He reaches for my hand and pulls me up. “But you’re so on the wagon, Hay-gen, you’re driving it. So, you’ll be fine. Let’s go.”
He leads me out of the restaurant, still holding my hand. It’s sweet torture. His warm skin sends a little snake of electricity up my arm, making something in my chest constrict. This is either love or a heart attack. Neither of which I’m ready for.
“Come on. Let’s put our feet in the water.”
“Sharks can take you even if you’re only in knee-deep.”
“We’ll keep it to our ankles. I never took you for a chicken, Hay-gen.”
“Shut up.”
We go down a flight of wooden steps to the beach. The deck of the restaurant is on sturdy wooden supports. Judging by the barnacles on the posts, water reaches halfway up them during high tide. It’s dark on the beach, except for the faint light from the hotel and the restaurant in front. Above us, grey clouds block the moon.
Great. The lighting here should be nice and flattering at least. I don’t even entertain the idea of how our seclusion makes this an ideal location to make out. Well, not for more than a few seconds, anyway.
The water laps the shore ten metres to our right. The ocean is dark and ominous, the sound of the waves like an incessant monster getting closer and closer. Have I mentioned I’m a little scared of the dark and sharks?
Keats is still holding my hand as he leads us both to the water, like an irresistible male equivalent of a siren leading me to my death.
“I need to take my sandals off.” I hang onto his firm bicep for balance while I slip off my shoes. Once they’re off, I make a dash for the hotel. My toes dig into the sand, reminding me of summers when Isabella and her family took me to the beach with them.
“Hey!” Keats says, giving chase.
I see him behind me and palm him off in the chest, sending him tumbling to the sand. I look over my shoulder and laugh while he shakes his head, smiling as he scrambles to his feet. The stairs to the restaurant’s deck are five metres away. I reach for the banister. Then wham!
I find myself on the sand with Keats’ arms around me, his hard body half on me and his head about level with my breasts.
“You’re hard to get, Hay-gen,” he laughs. “Shit. I’m gonna throw up.”
I push him off quickly, and he chuckles as he rolls away and sits on the ground beside me.
“I was kidding,” he says.
I sit up and slap him on the chest, making him laugh some more. “I can’t believe you tackled me.”
“I was going to go easy on you, but you smacked me down.”
“Hardly.” I pat my arms to dislodge the millions of grains that are stuck to the moisturiser on my skin. “I barely touched you. Not my fault you went down like an old lady with osteoporosis.” I turn my face towards him to see his reaction to my dig.
He is looking at my lips. “You have a smart mouth.”
When the tip of his tongue wets the corner of his mouth, I lean in ninety per cent—I heard that advice from the movie, Hitch. For a soul soaring couple of seconds, I actually believe he’d bridge the gap and kiss me. But he doesn’t. How embarrassing. I shift in my seat, casting my eyes away from him and onto my chubby legs sticking out of my bright sarong dress. How soon can I excuse myself?
“Hay-gen?”
“It’s getting late, and the bride has activities planned for us in the morning.”
“Jess.”
I look up. “What?”
He answers me with a kiss on the lips, his hand cupping my jaw. My senses get flooded. Keats is kissing me.
Keats. Is. Kissing. Me!
I’m overloaded by sensations and emotions and thoughts, my mind unable to attend to any of them sufficiently. I kiss him back with abandon, grasping my chance to taste him and savour the softness of his lips while I navigate the rough stubble just below the centre of his lower lip. I breathe in, the salty night air mixing with Keats’ soapy scent, and beer. His warm hand on my cheek trails down my neck.
“Isabella,” he sighs quietly.
It takes me a couple of heartbeats before I realise what he’s said. Actually, I probably wouldn’t have noticed, except he falters in his kiss like he realised he’d just put a gigantic foot in his mouth.
“Arsehole.” I place two hands flat against his chest and push. I follow this with a punch to his shoulder before I stand up, dusting my bottom till most of the sand has fallen on him.
“Hay-gen. I’m sorry. I—” he pauses to put a hand to his mouth and swallow. Even in the dim lighting, he looks a little green. “I shouldn’t have done that. Any of that.”
“Yeah. I
