No Tan Lines by Kate Angell

slicked back with his fingers. His lashes were spiky. His gaze was liquid dark.
    “ I’m walking,” she said. “Feel free to duck into a store and wait out the storm.” She expected him to do so.
    She removed her flip-flops and pressed on. What few customers there were had cleared the boardwalk. Shaye felt safe. There was no lightning or thunder. The steady pelting was warm, like a shower. She loved storms. She enjoyed every footstep.
    Four blocks farther, the sun pushed through the clouds and struggled to shine. The rain fizzled to a sun shower. Each drop sizzled off the hot cement. Steam rose like a sauna. The humidity shot high. The sun winked and disappeared a second time. It was again overcast.
    Shaye slowed, scanning the beach. Frothy waves crested the rain-soaked sand. One surfer braved the breakers. She ran one hand down her face. Her hair was damp, and her cheeks were moist. Her stretchy lace blouse and denim skirt were soaked. She didn’t care, not until Trace cast his shadow over her.
    She’d hoped to shake him, but there he stood. He, too, was wet. His dress shirt clung to his wide shoulders and flattened against his abdomen. The cotton dented at his navel. The front of his slacks defined what made him a man. A very big man. No shrinkage there.
    Shaye scrunched her nose. “You’re as crazy as me” slipped out before she could stop herself.
    “Not nearly as crazy,” he said. “I thought you’d melt in the rain.”
    Like the Wicked Witch of the East. She didn’t take kindly to his reference but let it slide. She spread her arms wide. “Sorry to disappoint you. Nothing dissolved.”
    He took in her breasts, which were still an A-cup. If there’d been melting, she would have been as flat as a boy.
    His gaze lowered, and her stomach quivered. He showed great interest in her skirt. A skirt that seemed to have shrunk in the rain. The denim wedged between her thighs and creased into her crotch. An arrow to her sex.
    Heat chased through her body. Shaye tugged at the hem, yet the denim stuck to her like a second skin. She needed to change her clothes. Immediately.
    Three Shirts to the Wind allowed her to do so. She entered through a tangerine door. Trace tailgated once again. She glared over her shoulder, expressing her displeasure.
    He ignored her, moving even closer. She’d need an air bag if he bumped her again. The store was packed with customers who preferred retail therapy over walking in the rain. The shop specialized in shirts: plain white cotton to brightly colored polos. Some tees had caricatures, while others had decorative designs. A few naughty logos raised eyebrows. Most sayings were funny and silly. All sold well.
    Shaye hugged her third cousin and shop owner Jenna Cates. Jenna was petite with short dark blond hair. She looked smart in her round Ralph Lauren glasses.
    Jenna homed in on Trace from behind the counter as he moved off to the side, avoiding the crush of the crowd. Her voice was low, flat, firm. “No welcome mat for that man.”
    “No need,” Shaye whispered back. “He won’t be around long. After the volleyball tournament, you can put a sign in your window that reads: No Shirt. No Shoes. No Saunders.”
    Jenna grinned. “I like that.”
    So did Shaye.
    Jenna turned and snagged two purple beach towels from a shelf behind her. “No dripping either—the tile floors will get slippery. Dry your wet selves off.”
    A puddle had already formed at Shaye’s feet. She requested a third towel for them to stand on, which she dropped onto the floor. Trace sidestepped onto one end of the terry cloth. His leather loafers squished water.
    Shaye patted her face and arms.
    Trace dried his hair and the back of his neck.
    Jenna fanned her face. It was getting warm in the shop, Shaye noted. Those browsing stood four deep around the circular T-shirt racks. With each opening of the door, humidity snuck in. Shaye grew sticky, too.
    Jenna undid the third button on her yellow polo. Been there.