Summer Sky (5 page)

"Even though I'm tempted to kiss that sarcastic mouth of yours, I promise I won't," he says in a low voice.

Holy crap
. Can one person's words really unravel me like this? Forget about the ice cream earlier, I'm about to turn into a puddle on the floor.

"Good," I squeak. What a lie.

"Just so you know, so you can feel safe." The intensity of the sexual energy from him contradicts his words.

My stomach tightens as the image of his mouth on mine, and my stupid breathing speeds up. I part my lips and of course, he recognises my reaction; if girls regularly throw themselves at him for sex, he'll have a pretty firm handle on reading female body language. Dylan moves forward, and I grip the edge of the sink behind as he holds his face close to mine. What the hell is he doing? Why say this when he's just said he doesn't want me to react like this to him?

Dylan smells amazing. Amazingly amazing, with amazing sprinkles on top. Male with a hint of shower fresh. His cheek is millimetres from mine, a strange static in the tiny gap between, and I can feel him as if we were touching.

"But if you change your mind, let me know." His breath is warm, mingling with the short bursts coming from my mouth.

Pulling back again, he waits for my response and it hits me what he's doing.

I'm pretty sure Dylan's testing me.

Does he think I’m lying and I'm really a clever groupie? No, he can’t believe I am. That's insane someone would go to this amount of trouble and pretence to um... fuck him.

I shake my hair and pull a nonchalant face, sidestepping him. "Okay, so I'll stay if you cook."

And he laughs, dropping all pretence of seduction. "So, pizza again?"

Why am I disappointed? And I don't mean about eating pizza again.

*****

I move my pile of clothes and rucksack into the second bedroom, across the creaking hallway from the bright and sunny bedroom facing the sea. Dylan supervises as I transfer my things from his room. Is he worrying I’ll go through his bag and take something to sell on eBay?

He follows me into the room where two sets of bunk beds and a wardrobe are crammed. I dump the clothes on the bottom bunk nearest the window and pout at the lack of view from the window. Then I hoist myself onto the top bunk I slept on as a grumpy teen, back then the height implied superiority over my younger brother sleeping in the other. Dylan looks up at where I’m perched on the edge of the top bunk.

There's the sexy, amused smirk again.

"What?" I ask.

"I’m trying very hard not to say something," he says in a low voice, "about you preferring to be on top."

"Jeez! Captain Cliché!" I throw a pillow at him and he catches it. Then I jump down, and start sorting through my clothes, so he can’t see my dilated pupils and heavy breathing reaction to him as easily as he did last time. Why isn’t he leaving the room? God, please make him leave because every moment he stays in the confined space with me, the harder my heart beats.

"I’m glad you decided to say," he says softly. "I like being around you. Here."

Straightening, I turn back to Dylan, thankful he’s in the doorway and at a non-gravitational distance. "But this is weird.”

"Yeah, but it’s good weird?”

"My life is beyond boring and nothing like I imagined. It’s safe and predictable, or was until this week when everything turned to shit." He makes a mock gasp at my swearing. "So I guess sharing a holiday house with some guy who may or may not be famous is weird. But I feel like it’s time I did something weird."

I can’t have a conversation with him now; I need this man to leave the bedroom so I can stop picturing what he said about being on top. In my imagination, I’m not on the bunk beds, I’m on him running fingers across those muscles while he…
I need to stop this.
"I want to unpack.”

"You already did."

"Tidy then."

"You mean you want me to leave you alone?"

"I’m a bit tired; I’ve had a long week. Think I’ll have a rest while you make dinner. Oh, wait, sorry. Order pizza."

He purses his lips. "I can cook!"

"Yeah?"

"There’s not much I can make with bread, cheese, crisps, chocolate and wine, Captain Cliché,” he teases.

"Cliché?"

"Girl going through a break-up? Eating her way through the pile of junk food in her cupboards."

Now, he’s hit a sore spot. "Fine. Whatever. Leave me alone."

Dylan backs off. Literally and figuratively. If I’m in my happy bubble of weirdness, he’s not bursting it.

Chapter Five

Day Three of Weirdness. I’m still alive, so it seems unlikely Dylan Morgan is a serial killer even though he shares the same initial and surname as a fictional one.

We missed each other for the rest of the day yesterday. My rest turned into several hours, and the house was quiet when I woke up at 10pm. Downstairs, half a pizza sat on the table with a note from Dylan informing me he’d eaten and gone for a walk. Then this note was crossed out and he’d written he’d gone to bed beneath. Half asleep, I munched on the cold pizza considering the strange domesticity of this arrangement, and how I didn’t imagine rock stars (or whatever he is) went to bed so early. My phone beckoned me towards googling him, but I resisted. Bubble walls are very thin.

This morning, Dylan’s bedroom door is open, bedding scrunched into a pile. He’s not downstairs but a dirty bowl rests in the sink. No bacon sandwiches this morning then. I sit and eat toast, in the silence of the house I came to be alone in, a house with an unwanted emptiness without Dylan, the man who shares my summer memories. I rub my eyes, fighting thoughts of Bristol and dickhead, cheating boyfriends. And wondering if I’ll have sex with Dylan before I go home.

Oh, wow.

Does he have this effect on every woman?

I suspect so.

But do I really want him to, as he so subtly put it, fuck me, and then leave? There’s adventurous and then there’s shameful. I don’t know. I’m being a little presumptuous he wants to do
that
; he said the reason he likes me is because I don't. Then he teases me by saying things about wanting to kiss me. Can he relate to women on a non-sexual basis?

I pack up my confusion and head for the beach.

Today, the sun fights with grey clouds, the idyllic summer weather gone. Instead of walking between the sand dunes, I scramble up the side, grasping onto seagrass as I do. The dunes aren't high, but elevated enough for a better view of the area. The almost-empty beach stretches between two rocky outcrops, and I can count the number of people in the surf on one hand. The grey sky turns the seawater to the colour of lead, the break of the waves higher than yesterday.

The wind whips my untamed hair across my face and goosebumps rise on my arms, so I clamber back down towards the beach. The tide is out, and I fix my attention on the damp sand, hoping to find shells as I walk along the shoreline. Half an hour later, I have a sandy pocketful but none to match those in my treasure box. I stand in the break, enjoying the sensation of waves lapping my toes and wriggle them into sand. With or without Dylan, this trip to Broadbeach was the best move; there's something raw about the sea that pushes away thoughts of the world I left behind in Bristol.

I’ve walked a long way from the house, so I head back, holding my hair wishing I’d tied it back. As I get closer, I notice a male figure in the waves. The man lets the waves carry him to shore, then swims back out to repeat the process. As I continue walking, this happens three times. The only other people in the sea are the same two kids I saw yesterday, who are getting into trouble for copying this swimmer.

I stop near the spot where the waves sweep the swimmer. Dylan, who else? I wait for the foaming waters to carry him to me. Emerging from the surf like some kind of movie scene, Dylan's chest gleams from the water trickling across his abs, and his board shorts hang lower, revealing the tantalising line of dark hair disappearing into his shorts.

Breathtaking doesn't even begin to cut it when describing this guy.

"Morning, summer Sky," he says, out of breath.

"Having fun?"

Of course he is; the guy’s face is lit up like a Christmas tree. Water shines on his face, drops landing on his lips, which he licks away. This fires the desire to touch my lips to his, igniting the slow burn inside so I tear my gaze away.

"The water’s a bit colder than the beach near my house…"

"Your house?"

He shakes water from his hair at me. "Forget I said that."

"The water’s bloody cold!" I step back and rub the water off my arms. "How can you stand swimming in this?"

"Because it makes me feel alive! Free. Fuck, I’d forgotten how awesome this place is. I can breathe again." Dylan’s half talking to himself, I can’t help but smile too. His happy enthusiasm is contagious. "Come in the water!"

But not that contagious. "I’m okay. Not my thing."

The waves pull at my feet, as if joining Dylan in persuading me to let my inhibitions go.

"I thought you said you wanted to do weird stuff that wasn’t your usual thing?"

"I draw the line at hypothermia. I’ll see you at the house." Despite the overwhelming urge to continue staring at the water dripping down Dylan’s chest, abs and into his shorts I take a deep, calming breath and turn away.

"The water’s not that cold!" he calls after me, as I traipse across the beach.

I don’t get far. Footsteps thud across the sand, as he races towards me. Before I can register what’s happening, Dylan grabs me around the waist, lifts me over his shoulder and turns back to the sea.

"What the hell are you doing?" I shriek.

I'm half upside down, face against his damp back and my legs gripped by strong arms. The body I've lusted after, in an ‘I will not lust after’ way, is closer than I ever imagined. Wet. Cold. And almost naked. My breasts squash against his back, nipples hardening as his skin dampens my t-shirt.

"Put me down," I demand unconvincingly.

"Come and have a swim with me."

His behaviour spins my mind, reckless and free. "No!"

I wriggle unconvincingly, but his grip is steel. "Yes."

"Stop behaving like a cave man." I slap his backside, secretly pleased to get a chance to touch him.

He slaps mine in return, "Stop being boring!"

"I'm not! I have all my clothes on!" I say through a giggle. This is insane, freeing and a huge turn on.

Until, he tips me over, dumping me in the middle of a cresting wave. My backside hits the sand and water pours over my head. Bloody cold water. Dragging myself upright, before another wave covers me; I wipe my hair from my face and shake water from my arms.

"Oh, my God! I can’t believe you did that!" I yell.

Dylan laughs; the sound pushes through my irritation to the freedom of the situation. I screw my face up, attempting not to laugh.

"Don’t! I’m annoyed with you! Look at me!" A wave drags my footing and I stumble. When he doesn’t catch me and instead lets me fall into the sea, I’m disappointed. I sit in the wet sand and cross my arms.

"Here!" he holds out a hand, to pull me up.

Gripping his wrist, I give him a hard stare as I stand but I’m not convincing anyone. "I’m soaked! If I’d wanted a swim, I’d have put my swimming costume on!"

"You don’t have a bikini?" he asks, looking me up and down.

"Who the hell would wear a bikini on an English beach?"

"Plenty of people."

I won’t tell him I haven’t the confidence to parade my pasty body covered in scraps of material for the world to see. Oh, my God, he’s staring at my tits. I pull forward my T-shirt, loosening from where it’s sticking to my chest, and then cross my arms across my protruding nipples. Dylan bites his lip, turning darkened eyes back to mine.

"Sorry, I was just picturing you in your bikini."

Which is pretty close to him imagining me naked. So now, I’m imagining him naked.
Jeez, Sky.
"I don’t have one."

"You do in my imagination," he says in a low voice, leaning towards me, "You’re lots of things in my imagination."

I can’t do this - have him suggest things like this to my sex-starved brain. "Well, you can keep them there!"

If we were on TV, or maybe somewhere warmer, and I was a foot taller, we could pretend to be a romantic couple playing in the sea and using the water as an excuse to get skin to skin. But we’re not. And I'm bloody cold. I turn and wade out of the sea before I’m pulled under again - by Dylan or the waves.

I need a shower, but now I’m unsure whether to go for cold or hot.

*****

Dylan stays out most of the morning; and when he gets home, I remain buried in my book world and ignore him, despite being hyperaware of his every move. Following a shower, he makes me a sandwich and tells me to stop sulking. I carry on sulking. With a darkly muttered, "Fuck this." Dylan disappears upstairs for the rest of the afternoon.