Love's Little Instruction Book by Mary Gorman Page A

body. She sat cross-legged with her back to Denise, who set to work lathering sunscreen onto Presley’s back. Presley looked up at Dave, still standing there like a fool, watching. She gave him a warm smile. “Hey Dave, want me to do you?” she asked.
    Dave looked at the three of them and thought suddenly of a line of chimpanzees, all grooming each other. He watched the three firm, supple bodies massaging each other and it suddenly occurred to him that there was a major difference between them and him. Unconsciously, his hands drifted up to his middle and he felt the extra weight that he had stored there.
    “Thanks for offering,” Dave told her regretfully. “but I’m afraid I’m allergic to cocoa-butter.”
    “Really?” Denise asked, looking up at him without stopping her long, slow stroking of Presley’s back. “That must be really hard with such fair skin.”
    Dave shrugged, unsure what to say. He sat down on a corner of the blanket and took a long, gulping drink of his soda. Drops of condensation and water from the melting tub of ice dripped off of the can and onto his shirt. It felt good. He looked over at Denise’s tanned hands as they rubbed their slow, methodical path over Presley’s skin, making slick, greasy swirls over the pale flesh. Dave shifted, uncomfortable, feeling a few surging waves of his own. Suddenly he damned himself for having worn loose, boxer-style swim trunks. He shifted again as he noticed how long Denise’s fingers were. She wasn’t wearing any nail polish, but her hands were perfectly manicured, with long, tapered tips. He’d never realized just how sexy fingers could be before. Abruptly, he launched himself to his feet. “I think I’m going to see how warm the water is today,” he announced.
    Three sets of eyes looked up at him as he didn’t quite run but didn’t quite walk to the shoreline. Once there, he kept on walking until he got as deep as his waist, then did a shallow surface dive, T-shirt and all, the dark green waters cooling him in a multitude of ways.
    He sighed. This wasn’t working out quite the way he’d hoped. In romance books, the couple went to a lush tropical paradise and the mood was set. But this wasn’t exactly a tropical paradise. The waters were dark and green, and there was no “lush vegetation” — not a shady tree in sight. The waves were choppy, the water was cold, and Dave was pretty sure that that was the smell of hamburgers in the air.
    Looking back at the trio on the blue blanket, Dave pondered his next move. He supposed that he would have to go back, and he hoped that the chill of the water would be enough to keep him from — he grimaced — pitching the tent , as it were. Maybe, if he just kept his eyes on the water rather than on the incomparable sight of Denise in her bikini, he’d be okay. Maybe if he thought of something else. Maybe he could close his eyes and think of the queen of England. Of sick puppies. Of politicians. Yes, that might do it.
    He waded about in the water for a bit; it would have been too obvious if he’d just dove into the water and come straight back. He could feel the water evaporating on his skin already, and the slight residue of salt clinging to his skin. Walking back toward the shore, he spotted an intact sea star and bent to pick it up. It was as dead as Tut, stiff and hard, with a bumpy pink color. He smiled as he turned it over, examining the small beak of a mouth. He held it in his hand as he walked parallel to the shore, enjoying the feeling of the waves lapping against his ankles as he went. A few yards farther and he found an intact whelk shell, its spiral, tapering shell a graying white on the outside, but a soft, shining orange on the inside. He ran his finger along the inside rim, marveling at its smoothness, then held the shell up to his ear and smiled — he heard the ocean — of course! He glanced up and whatever he had managed to recover of his good mood evaporated as he realized that