I spin, stopping short when I spy him.
“Oh my God,” I cackle. “What the hell are you wearing?”
His grin is electric, dipped in mirth and arrogance, a stark contrast to the sheepish half smile I normally get from him. “My robe and slippers,” he parrots back. The man even punctuates his sentence with a smug hip pop.
“My robe actually covers my body. You…that…” I gesture at his sky-high silk robe, the way it shows off too much—and yet somehow not enough—of his muscular thighs. “I can’t. You look ridiculous.”
“I look hot as fuck.” He ushers my still-laughing ass into the hall. “Carter got us these as a joke for their wedding. We had a photoshoot.”
“I need the pictures.” I tug his elbow. “Please.”
“No way, sunshine. I’m never letting anyone see them.”
“But I’ve already seen you in this,” I argue, ignoring the nickname as he leads me up one flight of stairs. I’m pretty sure he only calls me it to get under my skin. The smell of chlorine fills the air as the floor opens to a beautiful pool, the city below us lighting up the dark Vancouver skyline through the endless windows.
“And with any luck, you’ll forget what I look like in this.”
“Nope. Not happening. Burned into my memory, where it will remain, forever.” Along with another image, which is Garrett de-robing while staring at me with a goofy, lopsided smile.
I swallow my groan as he reveals the most immaculate body I’ve ever laid eyes on.
He’s pristine, all corded arms and carved muscles, leading down to a lean, tapered waist, and a bathing suit that does nothing to disguise the fact that Cara was, unfortunately, very correct: the weapon this man is carrying is big enough to destroy a small country. It’s been an unholy number of years since I’ve been intimate with somebody, and there’s a part of me—a very minuscule part—that wouldn’t mind being that small country.
Sliding off my robe and slippers, I set them next to Garrett’s things on the bench. When I turn back to him, I find his eyes locked on me.
His throat bobs, gaze heating as it falls, slow to come back up. In a moment of weakness, I reach for my robe, desperate to cover myself back up.
“I take back what I said earlier,” he whispers, halting my actions. “You definitely do not look like my mom.” His eyes widen, head wagging, like he didn’t mean to say that out loud. He gestures at me with one hand, the other in his hair. “I mean, you have a belly button ring.” He smashes his lips together. “No. No, that’s not what I…I wasn’t…” He covers his face with both hands, dragging them down in slow motion. “Aaah…”
Well, this is interesting. Also, I’m no longer feeling insecure. Thank you, Mr. Andersen.
To most people, I’m simply Carter Beckett’s little sister. I see the struggle there, the expression Garrett wears. I’m my own person, but he’s reminded that I’m untouchable by nature, because of my brother. There’s a physical attraction, one he’s battling with.
Still, when I climb into the hot tub, Garrett’s head moves between me and the pool, five whole damn times, like he can’t decide how close he’s allowed to be to me. I rest my head and close my eyes so that he can make the decision without whatever pressure he feels he’s currently under, and a minute later I hear the quiet lapping of water.
Cracking a lid, I watch Garrett swim up and down the length of the pool, and I resist the urge to snort. Not a workout, my ass.
Content in knowing he’s not going to die, I turn the massage jets on high, enjoy the way the pain in my ankle dissipates, and relax with a happy sigh.
I don’t know how long it’s been when a cool, damp hand lands on my shoulder, jolting me awake with a gasp, and Garrett’s turquoise eyes peer into mine.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you. You fell asleep. I called your name a couple times.”
My brain begs me to formulate a response. Instead, I study the shape of his lips, the way the bottom one is slightly puffier, the perfect bow that sits on top, the bit of scruff that surrounds them and makes his jawline a hundred times more rugged than it needs to be.
Towering above me, he stands there in all his flexed muscle glory, soaked to the bone, shaggy hair a rich golden color, like honey, droplets of water pooling at the tips until they drip down his face. In fact, I watch a particularly fat droplet hit his top lip, watch the way Garrett’s tongue darts out to catch it. Then I find the one rolling slowly down his chest, a river etching a path through his muscles. That bad boy keeps on rolling, right until it disappears into the waistband of his bathing suit shorts.
Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve hit the Holy Grail in flickpick material.
Garrett’s gaze drops to my chest, then ricochets back to my face. “You okay?”
“Fine,” I manage, super croaky.
His eyes bounce down again, then back up. Down, once more. Up. Jesus Christ, down again? Seriously? I know I have boobs there, but has the guy not seen enough sets of perfect tits? What’s so interesting about these ones?
Looking down at myself, I inwardly groan. My nipples are rock hard, saluting him through the bathing suit that does absolutely nothing to disguise that I’m turned on right now. Stupid fucking nipples. Stand down, soldiers.
I roll my eyes and flick water at him. “We get it, Garrett; you’re hot. You don’t have to stand there half-naked and soaking wet and rub your hotness in our face.”
He beams with pride before his forehead creases. “We?”
“Yes, we.” I gesture at my nipples. “Don’t act like you haven’t noticed. Your eyes can’t stay on my face for more than two seconds.”
“Well, I didn’t…I mean, they’re…hard,” he finally finishes with a sigh, followed by a barely audible fuck.
This guy is the most terrible combination of godawful at flirting and horrendously awkward, and part of me wants to bury my face in a pillow and scream. The other part of me finds it intoxicating, adorably charming, notching his fuck me factor up to a full ten.
Highly annoying. I don’t like it.
Garrett claps his fist into his opposite hand, rocking back on his heels. “Um, should we…are you…let’s…” He points to the door. “Bed?” His jaw hangs as he quickly attempts to backtrack, eyes full of fear as he waves his hands in front of his face. “I didn’t mean together. Not, like, you and me, in bed, together. That’s not what I meant.”
“Right.”
“I meant you in your bed and me in mine. Fuck. Gross.”
My brows rise slowly. “Gross?”
“What? No. Not gross.”
“You said gross.”
“But I didn’t mean…it wouldn’t be gross. It would be great. No. That came out wrong too.” He squeezes his eyes shut, head wagging frantically. “I have a concussion,” he finally spits out, then holds his hand out. “Can I help you out?”
“Are you sure you want to touch me? You might get my cooties. Imagine how gross that would be.”
Garrett cracks a grin that turns into a soft, hearty chuckle, the tension in his shoulders easing. “I deserved that. I’m ready to go, but if you want to stay longer, I don’t mind hanging—”
“No.” I dislodge my ass from my seat, wading through the hot water. “I’m ready for bed.” I take Garrett’s outstretched hand, letting him help me out.
I sink down to the bench, sliding into my slippers while Garrett fetches us some towels. Exhaustion hits me like a brick to the face, and I rest against the wall. The deck is humid and steamy, slatted bamboo walls reminiscent of a sauna, and sleep begs to pull me under.
When Garrett returns with a towel, I stand and yawn, stretching my arms overhead.