she crossed her arms on the raft and rested her head on them. "What happened to your modeling?"
"Cancelled. They want to do a morning shoot instead." He swam to the stairs and sat. He needed his sunglasses, but it would be a few more minutes before the cool water helped get his body under control. "They let me keep the trunks."
"Purple. Interesting."
"GQ Magazine."
"Ah." She was quiet for a few minutes. Was she checking out his muscles from behind her sunglasses?
He smiled, tightened his chest and fisted his hands, effectively bulking up his arms.
She jerked and after a moment, laughed. "Ick. Stop it. You're all steroided out."
"Hey, I've never taken a 'roid in my life."
"Mmm hmm. Just your strenuous work as a bartender and model that keeps you pumped up like a hot air balloon." She laughed. "Or is it lifting all those heavy textbooks?"
" Chica , you're a ball buster." He nodded toward his bedroom. "You've seen my weight equipment. I work out every day." He posed, looking at his pecs. "My body is my instrument," he teased.
"Oh, please spare me." She splashed him.
He chuckled and jumped out of the pool, walking toward his bedroom to get his sunglasses. Turning, he asked, "Would you like a drink."
"Okay."
"What sounds good?"
"Mmm. Something fruity, refreshing, with an umbrella."
"So, I'm your personal bartender now?"
"I tip very well."
He laughed. "I've gotten fifty dollar tips before. Think you can match that?"
"Fifty bucks? That must have been an incredible drink."
He shrugged. "She was trying to buy my affection."
"Really. What kind of a bar do you work at?"
"Perfectly respectable." He wagged his brows at her. "With a few exceptions. It's on South Beach. Come with me some night. My friends are usually there and if you don't want to stay all night, I'd trust them to give you a ride home."
"I'll think about it."
"Right." He went into the house. He'd learned long ago that, coming from a woman, "I'll think about it" meant "no." In the kitchen, he stirred up a concoction of tequila, cassis, lemon and ginger ale, found a paper umbrella and stuck a slice of lemon on it. He'd also learned that liquor made women easier and he reached for the tequila bottle to fortify her drink. At the last second, he pulled back. What the hell was he thinking? He didn't get women drunk.
He brought her drink and all the ingredients out to the pool bar, grabbed a beer from the fridge, poured it into a plastic glass, and slid on his sunglasses.
She still floated on her stomach and the way the t-shirt clung to her ass should have been illegal. So round and irresistible, it made his mouth water. Keeping his eyes off the temptation, he waded in and handed her the drink.
"Thank you. I'll get the next round."
The image of her standing up and walking around in a wet t-shirt gave him a heart palpitation. "To our friendship."
"Friendship." She touched her plastic glass to his and sipped. "Oh, Sixto, this is really good. If I had a fifty on me, I'd definitely tip you."
"Chicks like that drink."
"Mmm. What do you call it?"
"Sixto on the Beach."
She laughed, that crazy, snorting, loud laugh that made him warm inside.
He reached for a floating chair and jumped into it. Years of practice made him an expert.
They floated quietly for a minute. She turned her head and watched him through her dark glasses. "May I ask you a personal question?"
"Fire away."
"How did you and Cloe meet?"
"I was bartending. Living at home, I just finished my bachelor's degree—finally at twenty-four."
"How old are you now?"
"Twenty-eight."
"I thought you were younger."
"Yeah, it's all the steroids. They keep me young."
She laughed.
He sipped his cold beer, watching her over the glass. "I was working two jobs, saving for graduate school, and she asked if I ever modeled."
"Did she give you a fifty dollar tip too?"
He heard bitterness in her tone. "No, it was never that way between us. She was looking for ethnic types for local advertising and I'm
"Cancelled. They want to do a morning shoot instead." He swam to the stairs and sat. He needed his sunglasses, but it would be a few more minutes before the cool water helped get his body under control. "They let me keep the trunks."
"Purple. Interesting."
"GQ Magazine."
"Ah." She was quiet for a few minutes. Was she checking out his muscles from behind her sunglasses?
He smiled, tightened his chest and fisted his hands, effectively bulking up his arms.
She jerked and after a moment, laughed. "Ick. Stop it. You're all steroided out."
"Hey, I've never taken a 'roid in my life."
"Mmm hmm. Just your strenuous work as a bartender and model that keeps you pumped up like a hot air balloon." She laughed. "Or is it lifting all those heavy textbooks?"
" Chica , you're a ball buster." He nodded toward his bedroom. "You've seen my weight equipment. I work out every day." He posed, looking at his pecs. "My body is my instrument," he teased.
"Oh, please spare me." She splashed him.
He chuckled and jumped out of the pool, walking toward his bedroom to get his sunglasses. Turning, he asked, "Would you like a drink."
"Okay."
"What sounds good?"
"Mmm. Something fruity, refreshing, with an umbrella."
"So, I'm your personal bartender now?"
"I tip very well."
He laughed. "I've gotten fifty dollar tips before. Think you can match that?"
"Fifty bucks? That must have been an incredible drink."
He shrugged. "She was trying to buy my affection."
"Really. What kind of a bar do you work at?"
"Perfectly respectable." He wagged his brows at her. "With a few exceptions. It's on South Beach. Come with me some night. My friends are usually there and if you don't want to stay all night, I'd trust them to give you a ride home."
"I'll think about it."
"Right." He went into the house. He'd learned long ago that, coming from a woman, "I'll think about it" meant "no." In the kitchen, he stirred up a concoction of tequila, cassis, lemon and ginger ale, found a paper umbrella and stuck a slice of lemon on it. He'd also learned that liquor made women easier and he reached for the tequila bottle to fortify her drink. At the last second, he pulled back. What the hell was he thinking? He didn't get women drunk.
He brought her drink and all the ingredients out to the pool bar, grabbed a beer from the fridge, poured it into a plastic glass, and slid on his sunglasses.
She still floated on her stomach and the way the t-shirt clung to her ass should have been illegal. So round and irresistible, it made his mouth water. Keeping his eyes off the temptation, he waded in and handed her the drink.
"Thank you. I'll get the next round."
The image of her standing up and walking around in a wet t-shirt gave him a heart palpitation. "To our friendship."
"Friendship." She touched her plastic glass to his and sipped. "Oh, Sixto, this is really good. If I had a fifty on me, I'd definitely tip you."
"Chicks like that drink."
"Mmm. What do you call it?"
"Sixto on the Beach."
She laughed, that crazy, snorting, loud laugh that made him warm inside.
He reached for a floating chair and jumped into it. Years of practice made him an expert.
They floated quietly for a minute. She turned her head and watched him through her dark glasses. "May I ask you a personal question?"
"Fire away."
"How did you and Cloe meet?"
"I was bartending. Living at home, I just finished my bachelor's degree—finally at twenty-four."
"How old are you now?"
"Twenty-eight."
"I thought you were younger."
"Yeah, it's all the steroids. They keep me young."
She laughed.
He sipped his cold beer, watching her over the glass. "I was working two jobs, saving for graduate school, and she asked if I ever modeled."
"Did she give you a fifty dollar tip too?"
He heard bitterness in her tone. "No, it was never that way between us. She was looking for ethnic types for local advertising and I'm
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