Into You Series: The Complete Collection

14. Nia

CHAPTER 14

NIA

H ouses, houses, houses, hotel. Houses, houses, shopping mall.

I believe the world is gradually becoming clearer as we make our way back to our resort, but once I stand to exit the vehicle, I know I am sadly mistaken. The world is far from clear, and my body is not in a state to be walking.

Ian runs around the car and tries to hold out his hand to assist me. I accept the gesture. God, he’s warm, and his hands are big. What do they say about big hands, again?

With Ian? Bigger ego.

When we’re inside, Corinne throws her long arm around me and kisses the side of my face. “Your singing was beautiful tonight,” she compliments. I lean my head against her arm, as she is much too tall for me to rest my head on her actual shoulder. I want to dislike her, but she’s just so darn sweet.

We all ride the elevator up and a couple people are groaning, though it’s hard to determine who. Once we’re on our floor, Ramona and Wes immediately disappear into their room and Cam tries to lead himself and Grace off, but she’s too busy clinging to me and Corinne in some form of a group hug.

“You guys are the best bridesmaids,” she says.

“We’re okay, I guess,” I slur. “I would say we’re probably run-of-the-mill bridesmaids.” Honestly, I might lean a bit more toward best bridesmaid for me because, last time I checked, I went to a sex shop and none of the rest of them did, but I can’t really put myself on a pedestal like that. Ramona seems like the best maid of honor, and damn if Corinne isn’t the kindest soul I’ve ever met. She sang multiple songs with me tonight and we rocked the heck out of them. She will definitely be my future partner in all Styx covers moving forward. Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto.

I roll my lips together and try to keep my thoughts inside. I’m having trouble with that tonight. My mouth feels like it’s necessary to blurt out every idea my mind has. Maybe, if I try hard enough, I can put just enough pressure to have my mouth stay shut.

We all nod against each other and Grace finally follows Cam into their room. I hear faint giggles before the door closes.

“You’re swaying,” Ian points out, watching me move back and forth, which I just realized I’m doing. “You know you’re not on a boat, right?” he asks, lifting an eyebrow and grinning. His smile is gorgeous. He has those teeth, you know? The kind that obviously reflects years of orthodontia. They’re all uniform too, like they’ve been shaved down to the exact same length with the exception of maybe the canines. Is it genetics? I think Ramona has perfect teeth too, but I haven’t really been paying attention to her as much as I have to Ian. That’s because his looks make him practically a god among men. Shit, I did not just think that.

“She’s had one too many,” Corinne stumbles, patting me on the back. “You have keys?” Her tone is almost motherly. I rifle through my purse pocket, pull out the keycard, scan it because I’m a total expert at this— no help needed, thank you very much —and finally enter.

“Thanks, Corinne. Bye, Ian.”

I turn around before the door shuts and see Ian’s bright blue eyes staring right back at me.

Goodbye, beautiful.

I stand in the foyer of my room. Yes, Ian was correct. I am definitely swaying. The bed is up then down then…shaking? I don’t know what to do now. Lying down feels like a waste of time, but I’m too drunk to do anything else. Maybe I’ll answer emails, do some work. No, that’s a liability waiting to happen…

A solution is provided for me when my phone vibrates in my purse. I pull it out and see that it’s my parents. What the heck are they doing up this late? It has to be two o’clock. Maybe three? I’ve lost track of time. Maybe they’re indulging in their newfound “plant hobby.” The thought gives me pause, but I answer anyway. Bunch of old kooks.

“Hi,” I say.

“Nia.” The voice on the other end speaks, and it’s not my mom’s cheery voice or the goofy tone my dad uses when he starts a phone conversation as if it’s the beginning of a stand-up bit. The voice isn’t even comforting like Harry’s or higher pitched like Cara’s. It’s gruff and raspy with an edge to it.

“Who is this?” I ask.

The person clears his throat. “Grant. It’s Grant.”

My stomach sinks, and even though I want to sit, my knees are locked, and I’m cemented to my place in the foyer.

Grant is using their phone. My brother. This stranger I used to know.

“Why are you calling me?” It’s all I can get out.

“Thought I’d say hey to my little sister. Long time, no talk.”

“And what is there to say?”

“Tell me about your life,” he says, exasperated. “Work, your cat, who cares. Whatever.”

“You called me at three in the morning to talk about Jiggy?”

“You named him Jiggy?” He laughs.

“Her,” I correct.

“Well, either way, no. We can talk about your job instead. Or your shitty car. Who cares.”

I feel like I’m at a bus stop carrying on a conversation with the chatty person in the corner of the depot revving up for any social interaction. Unfortunately, not only am I barely capable of having a decent discussion at the moment, Grant is the last person I want to talk to.

“Fine, I heard you cheated,” I say. “And that you’re on drugs.”

There’s a pause followed by Grant’s punching laugh.

“Where did you hear that? Harry?”

“Is he not a reputable source?”

“I’ve fucked up, but so have all of you. Last time I checked Harry has a child with a runaway baby mama. Didn’t see that coming.”

“Shut up,” I snap. “She didn’t run away. She’s busy and professional…but that’s beside the point!” I grumble. “I don’t have time for this right now.” It’s the only excuse I can come up with, and it’s a flimsy one at that. I may be drunk, but I am in control of this situation.

“It’s three in the morning,” he drawls. “Of course you have time.”

“No, I don’t,” I insist, shaking my finger in the air. “I’m hanging out with people. I’m still young, you know. I have a life.”

Okay, control is slipping. Bring it back in, Nia.

“I just wanted to talk.”

“We’ll talk when I get back. How’s that?” The last thing I want to do is speak with him, but if he’s living with Harry and my niece, it’s unavoidable.

“You sound like you’re talking to a child.”

“Maybe I am.”

Then, boom! Silence. Deafening silence. Is that even possible? Do those words go together? I don’t know, but I want the silence, which is now quickly veering into awkward territory, to end—and fast. “You’ve been a child forever,” I say in an effort to achieve that. The words leave my mouth before I can stop them, as if the alcohol is pushing them from the depths of my subconscious.

Shit.

“You want to run that by me again?” His tone is sharp and demanding, offended. I really, really don’t have the mental capacity to handle this right now.

“I can’t do this tonight.”

“No, we’re going to talk, Nia.”

“Talk to Harry.”

Before either of us can saying anything else, the background tone dies, and I see he’s hung up.

I mull in the foyer for a minute or two—heck, maybe even thirty minutes, I really don’t know—before standing in my room no longer seems good enough. The night is still young and damn it, I really want to go on a walk. I need the beach to help me wind down and sober up, and reevaluate my life choices.

I involuntarily nod as if I’m agreeing with my wildly irresponsible decision, stop to pocket my key, and then waltz back out into the hall where Ian is inserting his keycard into his own door. He pauses when he sees me.

“And where do you think you’re going?” he asks with a black eyebrow lifted.

“I could ask the same,” I blurt out, looking both ways down the hall.

“Bed,” he replies slowly, moving back from his door and putting the keycard in his pocket. What? Does he think we’re going to be talking here forever?

“But where were you?” I insist.

“I went on a walk,” he says, squinting at me in suspicion. “Where are you going? And why so late at night?”

“A walk as well, sir ,” I quickly announce, ignoring his second question. How dare he question my motives. This is none of his business.

Ian exhales with a smile. “Well I guess I’m joining you.”

“Excuse you?” I ask, my head jerking back. “I am an independent woman, and if I want to go on a walk alone, I will do just that.”

“Well that’s fine and all, but it’s dark.”

“I’m not afraid of the dark,” I scoff.

“Okay,” he says, “but what about the washed-up trash you can’t see on the shore? The animals with stingers?”

“I’m a human. They are fish. They don’t even have thumbs. I think I can handle myself.” I walk to the railing and, out of the corner of my eye, see him take a step forward with one hand out, as if ready to catch me.

Psht, I’m not going to fall.

“What are you doing?” he asks, laughing.

“Checking out the ocean,” I say, looking out at the dark beneath me. I don’t exactly hear waves, but it’s hard to see much at night anyway.

“That’s the parking lot.” Right.

“Fine,” I say, twisting to see him. How irritating and wonderful all at once. Shorts, well-fitting shirt…his normal look. And, yes, those are some big arms that could potentially protect me should I encounter a shark on land. Doesn’t punching a shark in the nose protect you? Does that still work outside of water?

“A guide would be alright, I suppose,” I declare, my head raised.

“Then let’s go,” he says. His hand goes to the small of my back, and even though I’m compelled to clock him in the face just like I would do to a shark if one were to come at me right now, I let the gesture go.

It has been much too long since I’ve had the feel of a man’s hand on me. I like it. His is large, warm, and like a small blanket draping over my lower back. I wish it would rest just a little lower. I wonder if it would if I asked him to. Thankfully, my mouth doesn’t blurt this thought out.

We ride down the elevator and I’m stroking the side rails, noticing the smudges against the bronze. Too many fingerprints. Gross. I jerk my hand back in disgust, and he laughs. I find him staring at me, leaning against the railing on the opposite side of the elevator.

“You’re a funny drunk,” he says.

“I’m glad you find me amusing.”

“I do.” A single eyebrow rises once again, this time the one with the scar across it.

“You can raise both eyebrows independently,” I observe out loud. “I can only do one. That’s talent.”

“Is it?” He gives me a sideways grin. It’s got that underlying sense of mischief, like some wood nymph. Why am I thinking of wood nymphs?

“I play flute, you know,” I say. Just like a wood nymph.

“Is that so?” He chuckles quietly. He’s flirting with those stupid arms and that stupid eyebrow with the stupid scar he probably got from being an asshole and getting punched in the face.

“I was in band all throughout high school,” I continue . Stop talking about stupid band stuff, Nia. “I was first chair flute.” Stop bragging about an achievement from almost two decades ago.

“That’s cute,” he says. My knees buckle a bit, but I hold the rail.

“I’m actually delightfully average.”

He stares at me for a moment then deepens his half-smile. “I don’t think so.”

I turn my head away from him as my face flushes, and then I realize I’m touching the railing once more, smearing more fingerprints onto it. Ew.

The walk to the shore is a struggle. Ian has to escort me down the stairs with his cell phone flashlight leading the way. We both take off our sandals once we reach the deep sand, and I finally get the common sense to whip out my own phone as well. By then, we’re already strolling on the beach, shining our lights on the walkway of sand in front of us with our shoes in the opposite hand and saying nothing.

“How long are you going to walk with me?” I ask, breaking the silence.

“Until you don’t want me to anymore,” he answers.

“That’s really nice,” I comment. “Like, really nice. You’re a lot nicer than you seem.”

“I like to think I’m a fairly nice person.” He laughs. “You’ve just made up your stubborn mind to dislike like me over the years.”

“Because you’re annoying,” I groan exasperatedly. This only makes him laugh again. I look down and see a washed-up, curled piece of plastic. “Ew, what’s that?” I ask, shooting my finger out to point at it.

He grips my wrist to pull me away before I can touch it. When I lean closer, I see that what I thought was a sheen from the plastic appears to be something entirely different.

“That’s a condom, Polly,” he says.

“Gross!” I yell, and he shushes me while snickering.

“Not a fan of beach sex?” he asks.

It’s a good thing it’s dark and he can’t see my expression because I feel my entire face grow hot again while my mouth stretches into a grimace. If only he knew the fantasies I’ve been having. I let out an awkward burst of laughter, unable to contain the unrest bubbling within me.

“Oh, so you are?” he says with surprise, his phone light lifting from the ground to point at me. I swat it back down before it can reach my reddened face.

“I’ve never tried it,” I mumble, “but I’ve read about it.”

“In those romance novels?”

“Shush.” As the tide rushes in, the water wets the sand beneath our feet, causing our toes to create deeper footprints. If we were having sex right here, I wonder if our asses would leave prints on the sand. I wonder if my toes would curl and gather sand around me and if Ian’s hands would make indentions on either side of my hips. No, these are inappropriate thoughts to be having about stupid Ian Chambers…but it’s hard not to notice how, with every step, his thigh muscles tighten and release. I bet they have a lot of power in them.

With each additional step, his shorts skim his toned thighs, and then I see it again: the cinched scar peeking out beneath the hem. His skin waves inward like the edge of a crumpled piece of paper, leaving a sort of shallow dent the farther up it goes.

I flash my light to it. “You’ve never told me about that,” I say.

He hesitates before saying, “You’ve never asked.”

“Well, what happened?”

I hear a faint gulp from him as if he’s contemplating whether or not to answer, and I wonder if I’ve crossed some sort of line. He finally breaks the silence with a short, two-word response. “Car crash,” he croaks out, followed by a small chuckle as if he’s in disbelief he said anything at all.

“Was it your fault?” I ask. He’s silent again, and I get a small tinge of anxiety in the pit of my stomach. I’m starting to remember that this is why I never drink. “Oh god, I’m sorry.” I burrow my face in my hands. “I’m so rude. This is so rude. What am I even asking?”

I hear a thunk and see my phone dropped into the sand. Ian quickly snatches it up before the tide comes in to claim it as its own. I see the hint of a smile when the light from his phone passes across his face. Okay, he’s smiling, so maybe I’m not crossing too many lines, more like lightly placing my big toe on one side.

“You’re too drunk for your own good,” he says. “And I fully intend to take advantage of this.”

HUH?

“What?!” I bellow.

“No! Not like that, Polly,” he says, dragging out the words with a small chuckle. “Geez, you’re so testy.”

“I don’t want to be…be…” I struggle to find words and let out a groan. “I can’t talk.”

“That’s because you’re drunk.”

“Well, I hate being drunk!” I yell. He quickly places a hand over my mouth and shushes me, laughing.

For whatever reason, I stick out my tongue and lick his palm, hoping it will cause him to move it away from my lips. To my surprise, he keeps his hand there, instead turning on the spot to face me. I bump into his chest and the smell of his cologne wafts over me. Sandalwood…bonfire… man.

“You’ve got to stop yelling.” He laughs, finally releasing my mouth.

I grumble nonsense words in response.

“What was that again?” he asks, bending a little to reach my level. My eyes must have adjusted to the moonlight because I can make out his features just slightly: the sharpness of his jaw, the manly stubble that’s formed over the past day or so, and the flop of his curls, no doubt fatigued by the humidity. He’s breathtaking in every way a man should be.

“You’re close,” I whisper.

“Does this bother you?” he asks. His voice is low, causing me to squeeze my legs together as nerves flitter down between my thighs.

“It bothers me that you’re good-looking,” I blurt out.

“That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” he whispers. “Can I tell you a secret?” The gruffness of his voice seeps into my chest. I gulp.

“What?” I say.

“I like you, Nia.”

My arms cross, but my hands are getting clammy and I’m curling my toes in the sand, barely able to contain the rush of attraction flowing through my veins. I’ve almost forgotten how it feels to be wanted, especially by a man of Ian’s caliber.

“You’re playing with me,” is all I can get out, and judging by his sly grin, he knows I’m borderline speechless.

“I wish I were,” he growls. It’s animalistic. I need him to make the noise again.

Wait—no, I don’t. Remember Ian? Ian, the man who turned you down? The man who ogles every woman? You don’t want that Ian. That Ian does not actually like you, at least not in that way.

But he’s licking his lips, and I’m biting mine because I’m trying anything to stop this building tension.

“You look like you want to kiss me,” I comment before I can even stop myself. My whole body gets giddy at the thought, but I swallow it down. “I mean— I don’t, just stating the obvious.” There we go. Good cover.

He grins. “Lucky you, I don’t kiss drunk women. Not my style.”

Of course he doesn’t, because he’s too perfect for that, isn’t he? I respect him for it, but admittedly, I’m also a small bit disappointed.

“Good,” I say defiantly, causing him to let out a laugh.

He’s a very intelligent man. I know this, and I’m wondering if he can see through my drunk, uncaring, nonchalant fa?ade. I wonder if he’s feeding off it.

“But if you want to flirt with a woman, go somewhere else,” I say, barely getting the words out through my tipsy stupor. “Go flirt with Corinne or something.”

“Corinne isn’t exactly into me,” he says with a small eye roll, as if I’m the idiot who should have known that.

“Don’t treat me like I’m stupid,” I snap, and he laughs again. “Ha ha,” I mockingly reply. “I’m glad my…my drunken state is funny to you.”

“Maybe, but last time I checked, I’ve been looking at you, not Corinne, or that girl at the bar.”

I’m exhausted. He likes me, he doesn’t…do I even care?

“How do you know Corinne?”

“Old friend.”

“Old friend you used to date?”

“Yes and no. I liked her once. But now she’s like a sister to me. That’s in the past. What did I just say? I’m looking at you.”

“Why are you doing this?” I ask, exhaling.

“You know why,” he says. “You’re smart, Nia. Take a guess.”

The words are coming out so easily for him, and I don’t understand how, but I know it’s all a ruse, just a game from a man who plays them knowing he can win. He’s just a man seeing how far he can take a woman before she caves. I’ve seen this with my older brother Grant and all the girls who swooned over him, all the girls who got their heart broken—including his poor, nameless wife.

I refuse to end up the same way.

“Can I tell you another secret?” he continues.

I don’t want him to. I want to push him away from me and go back to the hotel. How far did we walk, though? Am I stranded? I wonder if I should start walking back on my own. He can endure the land sharks by himself. Maybe if I walk fast enough, I can outrun them, but I also can’t stop imagining Ian’s touch, and that is the real terrifying scenario.

“Sure, tell me a secret,” I say, clearing my throat and lifting my chin in the air. This means nothing. This means nothing .

Curiosity killed the cat.

“I liked going to the sex shop with you,” he says. The words run through my body like venom. He’s the snake biting me, and I’m succumbing to the pain.

“Why?” I ask.

“Because I can imagine things.”

The words stab into me, fill my head with no-good thoughts, making my stomach drop. It’s a wonder I’m still standing. His lips look so soft as they hover near me, his curls so willing to have hands running through them.

I take a step back and feel the water run over my feet. The sand depresses under the weight and my heels dip lower. Next thing I know, I’m losing my balance, toppling over, and my arms are helicoptering in the air as I try to right myself. Ian grabs my arm just in time, wrapping his other hand in my shirt to hold me in place.

I hear my phone plop onto the damp sand for the second time tonight. Unfortunately, it is not as lucky this time as it was the first. Though not taken by the ocean, it is still soaking wet by the time I haphazardly shuffle to get it.

“No,” I moan before letting out a louder cry of, “What the HELL!”

Ian is grabbing his stomach in laughter, bending over and trying to contain himself.

I can’t believe two seconds ago I was actually considering kissing him, wondering what it would be like to be with him. I’m such a sucker. I’m actually happy he’s being such a jerk again. It’s reminding me why I’ve avoided him for six years. Seven? Eight? Ugh, I don’t know how many! Too many, that’s how many.

He sees my irritation and tries his best to stop laughing as he says, “It’s fine. Just put it in rice.”

“Oh, sure, I’ll totally find freaking rice at three o’clock in the morning,” I sneer. I’m just about done with him. I don’t want to hear any more of his misleading comments, and now I have a stupid, wet phone thanks to him. How am I possibly supposed to get back home? I want to leave. I want to get out of here. Stupid wedding, stupid week, stupid Ian.

“Well, it’s four o’clock now,” he corrects. Smartass. “But I actually do have rice.”

“Stop lying,” I snap, making my way through the sand, moving away from him. Just another joke, and it’s not even funny.

“I’m not. I always bring a bag of rice to the beach,” he says. “It’s saved me too many times.”

“That’s stupid.”

“You won’t think that in a few minutes.”

I stomp the rest of the way back, clutching my phone in a near death grip. Ian is a few steps behind me, pointing his phone in front of him to guide my way. Even though it prevents me from tripping up the wooden stairs, I refuse to be thankful for it.

We get back up to the rooms, exchanging no words in the elevator, and he tells me to wait, placing a hand on my arm as if to gently coerce me into being patient while he retrieves his imaginary rice. The gesture works, and that pisses me off even more.

Lo and behold, he returns two seconds later with a freaking bag of freaking rice. Is this guy even real?

“What the heck?”

“Told you.” He holds out his hand, palm up, and I reluctantly place the phone into it. When I do, my fingertips graze his skin. I can feel the ruggedness of it. His hand is so giant in comparison to my petite, slender fingers. I jerk my hand back, causing him to flash a smirk at me. The man can totally read my mind.

The phone is dropped in the bag of rice, zipped shut, and shaken up.

“This will soak up the moisture.” He hands the bag back to me. “Leave it in there overnight.”

“Neat trick,” I mumble, shuffling the rice around. Admittedly, it is a neat trick and a very good precaution to take. I appreciate responsible men, and he probably just saved my lifeline to home. Though, after my conversation with Grant, maybe I should let the thing die.

“You’re welcome,” he says, putting his hands in his pockets and leaning back in triumph. What does he want, some type of reward? It’s not like I owe him anything. The edge of his lip is curled into a cocky smile. While he is making me exceptionally angry, my body is also betraying me by having my nipples harden and press against my bra. They’re suddenly so sensitive. I wish our hands would graze again.

It’s silent between us with only the sound of rice bunching together in my hand as I absentmindedly squeeze and release the bag.

“What was it about the sex shop that you liked?” I suddenly ask.

It’s been a weird night, and for some reason I feel like I need to hear this. I haven’t received this type of raw attention in so long, and my body is having a hard time resisting.

He inhales sharply, shoving his hands deeper in his pockets.

“I don’t know,” he says, giving a small chuckle after. Is he as nervous as I am right now?

I feel like I’m in college again, in the beginning of a relationship, that magical time where you’re just getting to know one another. There are butterflies zooming through my chest, just waiting for the next comment that will drive my mind insane.

“No, really. What?” I say, voice nearly a whisper. I’m scared someone will overhear us. The last thing I need is Grace or his sister coming out of her room.

“You looking at DVDs,” he says. “Picking up penis erasers.” He laughs.

My mouth twitches into a smile. I roll my lips in to push it away. I both desire and resent this conversation. I need to get out of here.

But why? He’s no longer my co-worker. He’s just Ian. But, that’s it exactly—he’s Ian Chambers: a liar, a man who, despite saying he doesn’t date co-workers, I have seen do the opposite. I remember that night years ago. He didn’t see me standing there when he broke that sacred rule, the one he promised me he never broke.

And I’m not gullible. I can’t be.

“Have you ever thought about…us?” he asks.

That comment is exactly what I need to prompt me to shake my head, step back, and make my exit.

“Get over yourself,” I scoff.

“Wait, hang on?—”

“I’m not here to be just another girl you’ve duped into thinking they’re special.”

“I’m not teasing you, Nia.”

He says my name, not some stupid nickname like Polly or Apollo, just Nia. It has a different meaning to it. It’s intimate coming from his mouth, but this will not break me.

“I’m no different,” I say.

“Yes, you are.”

“I’m going to bed.” I exhale, nodding in a matter-of-fact manner and rummaging through my pocket to retrieve my keycard. His hand reaches out to grab my elbow and I turn on my heel to look at him. “What?” I snap, irritated. What else does he need? What other stupid, fun game can he play with me?

“Do you still have that movie?” he asks. My heart sinks.

The movie from the sex shop. I haven’t touched it since we got it. It’s still under my pillow, like a secret tooth ready to be stolen by the tooth fairy.

“No, I threw it away,” I lie. He smirks. He knows I’m not telling the truth.

“You should watch it,” he says. His voice is both a plea and a request. My knees shake and I realize I want him to plead with me more.

“I don’t have it,” I repeat, tugging my arm away and inserting my card. I twist the handle and walk in, but before I shut it, I turn back around, and there he is. He’s looking at me, piercing me through deep into my core, and I can’t help but take in a deep, shaky breath.

I imagine it all: his naked body, his strong arms, his sloping Adonis V, the gift waiting at the end of it.

He winks, and it’s a knowing wink. So, with that, I slam the door in his dumb, smirking face.

I trudge into my room, pacing and throwing my keycard and bag of phone rice onto the table, running my hand through my hair while I kick off my sandals in disgust. They’re covered in sand and beach water and stupid memories of tonight.

I almost let my guard down. I hate that I was almost just that weak enough. I hate his rough hand on my arm. I hate his gorgeous stubble. I hate his muscular body with its toned thighs. I hate how feverish my own body is, reeling with my blood pumping deeper down, desperate for release. All due to Ian Chambers.

My eyes jerk over to the pillow and my heart races faster.

No. I will not do it. Porn is disgusting.

I storm over to the pillow and toss it to the side, revealing the movie with its cover depicting actors in compromising positions, body parts intertwined like two octopuses trying to wrestle one another.

What a sorry way to spend time. How sad to feel like you need to watch random people get it on just to get your kicks.

I press the movie into the DVD player’s opening and mash the button on the TV to turn it on.

It’s ridiculous that people stoop to this level of entertainment.

I see a woman with her arms pressed against the chest of a bulky man. His muscles ripple even through his tight-fitting white shirt. He’s wearing a utility belt and a hard hat. She’s wearing a thin tank top with no bra underneath. His hand goes to her nipple, rolling it in his fingers. I mirror the same movement on myself, lifting my shirt over my head.

This is such a silly movie. Look at him, saying corny words and pushing her onto the workbench. Do your job, carpenter! You’re fixing her house!

I lean back on the bed, sliding my hand under my panties and closing my eyes. Carpenters leave my mind instantly.

I imagine the beach at night and the glow of a flashlight. There’s a tall, muscled, shirtless man hovering over me. His hands are placed on either side of me, centering himself just below my hips. He’s kissing my neck, nibbling my earlobes, and running his hand to my center as his fingers gently slip inside me.

I can imagine so clearly how he exhales over me, as if unable to contain how much I turn him on. He tells me to open my eyes so he can see me when I release. I oblige.

And I picture ice blue eyes staring right back at me.