Jackson shrugs, letting his shirt stay open. “Okay. What's that?”
“Sunscreen. That is, unless you want me to look like a mint candy tomorrow, all red and white stripes. Think you can help me with my lower back?” Jackson comes over and holds out his hands, and I squirt a glob of the lotion into his palm. I turn around and pull my top up a little, making sure he covers it all. “I can get the rest, if you need.”
“Okay, this might be a little cold,” Jackson says, and then his hands touch me. I can't help it, it feels so good to have him touch me, and I shiver slightly. His touch is gentle, rubbing my skin lightly, and I bite my lip to keep myself from gasping when his fingertips brush lower, just into the edge of my belt, on top of my hips. I hear Jackson's breath catch, then his hands come around, rubbing my sides before pulling back with reluctance. “I... I think I got it all.”
I turn around, seeing the same look in Jackson's eyes that I'm feeling inside me, and it's with a slightly shaky hand that I take the lotion back from him. “Thanks.”
I do the rest of my lotion myself and pull out my sunglasses and hat, fully suited up for the Miami sun. “You going to do any sunscreen?”
“I did some while you were changing. Just SPF ten, I've got some tan already. You know, all those hours being a douchebag by the pool with nothing to do but read.”
I chuckle and put my glasses on, casting the room in silvery darkness. “I won't take back what I said, you were a douchebag, but I think my opinion of you has changed a lot in the past few days.”
We leave the hotel, driving down to Miami Beach and going to Ocean Drive. I've seen the place before of course. Any computer geek who hasn't played GTA: Vice City at least once is no geek to me, and the game was modeled after the real Miami. But still, seeing all the art deco buildings and the shops is really cool, and after we find a place to park, we go for a stroll, just walking. It's fun, and when Jackson takes my hand, I just go with it, relaxing and enjoying myself. “Hey, do you have a camera?”
“I've got my phone,” Jackson replies, pulling it out. “Sixteen megapixels and enough memory to put a two-hour high-def video on it.”
“What do you need with a two-hour high-def video?”
“You don't really want to know that,” Jackson says with a playful tone, and I realize exactly what sort of video he's talking about. “I guess what I'm saying is... yeah, I've got a camera.”
“Well, can we get some pics together then?” I ask, letting his little faux pas drop. Hey, he's trying. “Like, maybe a selfie or something? I bet my friend Darcy would love it.”
Jackson brightens a ton and fiddles with his phone, then nods. “Sure. Where?”
We pose in front of one of the shops, and in a spur of the moment I put my arms around his neck and hug him while we wait for the camera to count down. He turns, and we're forehead to forehead when the timer goes off, and as the image comes up, I love it. We're smiling at each other, and I'm looking into Jackson's blue eyes while he looks into mine. “That... is a great shot,” Jackson says. “I'm posting this one on my Instagram for sure.”
“Very funny,” I counter, popping him lightly in the shoulder. “Don't make me hurt you in South Beach.”
Jackson rubs his arm and laughs, and we keep walking. Jackson stops in front of a boutique, and I look in the window, surprised. I see what he's looking at, and shake my head. “No way, Jackson. No way in hell.”
“Why not?” he asks, pointing out one of the skirts in the window. “That would look amazing on you. And it goes with your top.”
I shake my head but give in, letting Jackson drag me inside. The clerk looks bored, but when Jackson explains what he wants me to try on, the woman perks up. “Oh, that would be perfect on you!” she exclaims, her unnaturally red dyed hair bouncing. “You've got the midsection that this sort of skirt was designed for. It's meant to hug the hips and flare out from just below, so you get to show off your, ahem, assets while still having that breezy, flowy feeling.”
“Will they go with these?” I ask, looking down at my shoes, my black minimalist Nikes that I wear a lot for working out, or when I'm not expecting to need boots. The clerk hums, then shakes her head. “Well then, we might have a problem.”
“No we don't,” Jackson interjects, holding up a pair of sandals. “You're a size nine?”
“Yeah... how'd you know?”