sun goes down so I throw on an oversized sweatshirt over my swimsuit then slip on some flip flops.
I grab a large towel and head out to the pool.
Shit. Out of the corner of my eye I notice Emerson in swim trunks and a t-shirt heading from the main house right for the pool.
I think about turning right back around before he notices me, but I’m not quick enough. He waves in my direction.
Now what ?
I was hoping to relax and have some time to myself.
His words start to echo in my head again: You know I’m not a fan of vanilla .
“You don’t look so thrilled to see me,” he observes.
I realize I’m scowling. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“I swim every night. It’s great exercise.”
“Maybe I should go.” As I turn to leave he puts his hand on my arm. My entire body heats with his touch.
I pull away from him. “I didn’t think you were a fan of vanilla.”
His mouth opens and closes a few times, but no words come out.
“I’m not vanilla ,” I spit.
“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.” Even though he sounds sincere I’m still angry at him.
“But you still think I’m vanilla, whatever that means.”
He rubs his chin. “You’re not the type of girl I’m usually attracted to.”
“And why is that?” I challenge.
He gulps. “I usually go for girls with more style and soul.”
My eyebrows lift so high I can feel them practically reach my hairline. “You think I lack style and soul? Seriously?”
He nods.
“Like you’re the type of guy I’m attracted to,” I fire back.
“Let me guess. Every guy you’ve ever dated was a blond with a surf board.”
“Not true,” I shoot right back.
“I’m not buying it.”
“I dated guys at Yale who didn’t surf.” Admittedly I’ve never dated anyone who wasn’t blond, but he doesn’t have to know that.
“So we’re not each other’s type,” he throws back at me.
“Good. I’m glad that’s settled.”
When our eyes meet every part of my body gets shivery. Why is that happening if we’re not each other’s type?
I decide to ignore him and go about my business. Jackson said I could use his pool and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
I remove my sweatshirt and toss it on to the lounge chair next to me.
Emerson’s jaw drops when he sees me in my bikini. Not his type my ass. He’s practically drooling.
I ignore him and dive into the pool.
He practically rips his t-shirt off, tosses it onto the lounge chair with my sweatshirt and jumps into the pool right next to me.
Luckily the pool is heated so it’s not the least bit chilly. Although the heat that is being generated between us right now may be enough to melt ice.
Emerson can’t seem to take his eyes off of me.
“You don’t think my swimsuit lacks style?” I tease.
He shakes his head.
“I’m not soulless,” I tell him.
He doesn’t reply. He just continues looking into my eyes. Is he trying to see if I really do have a soul somewhere deep inside of me? That’s what it feels like.
“What kind of music do you like?” I ask him. I always thought you could tell a lot about people by the music they listen to.
“I’m kind of old school. I listen to jazz mostly.”
“Me too.”
His eyes narrow like he doesn’t believe me. “Who are some of your favorite artists?”
“Nora Jones. Madeleine Peyroux. Melody Gardot. Dianna Krall.”
He nods. “Okay. I like where you’re headed. What about Billie Holiday and Nina Simone? Bessie Smith, Etta James, Shirley Horn?”
“Edith Piaf?”
He grins. “ Parlez-vous français ?”
“ Oui .”
“ J'ai pris quelques cours de français au Lycée .”
“ J'ai étudié le français à l'université .”
He closes the small distance between us. I can feel the heat radiating from his body.
“I’m a physicist, not a chemist, but I’m going to go out on a limb and say there’s definitely some chemistry between us.”
“Some?” I mutter.
“A lot,” he corrects.
“What now?”
I grab a large towel and head out to the pool.
Shit. Out of the corner of my eye I notice Emerson in swim trunks and a t-shirt heading from the main house right for the pool.
I think about turning right back around before he notices me, but I’m not quick enough. He waves in my direction.
Now what ?
I was hoping to relax and have some time to myself.
His words start to echo in my head again: You know I’m not a fan of vanilla .
“You don’t look so thrilled to see me,” he observes.
I realize I’m scowling. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“I swim every night. It’s great exercise.”
“Maybe I should go.” As I turn to leave he puts his hand on my arm. My entire body heats with his touch.
I pull away from him. “I didn’t think you were a fan of vanilla.”
His mouth opens and closes a few times, but no words come out.
“I’m not vanilla ,” I spit.
“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.” Even though he sounds sincere I’m still angry at him.
“But you still think I’m vanilla, whatever that means.”
He rubs his chin. “You’re not the type of girl I’m usually attracted to.”
“And why is that?” I challenge.
He gulps. “I usually go for girls with more style and soul.”
My eyebrows lift so high I can feel them practically reach my hairline. “You think I lack style and soul? Seriously?”
He nods.
“Like you’re the type of guy I’m attracted to,” I fire back.
“Let me guess. Every guy you’ve ever dated was a blond with a surf board.”
“Not true,” I shoot right back.
“I’m not buying it.”
“I dated guys at Yale who didn’t surf.” Admittedly I’ve never dated anyone who wasn’t blond, but he doesn’t have to know that.
“So we’re not each other’s type,” he throws back at me.
“Good. I’m glad that’s settled.”
When our eyes meet every part of my body gets shivery. Why is that happening if we’re not each other’s type?
I decide to ignore him and go about my business. Jackson said I could use his pool and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
I remove my sweatshirt and toss it on to the lounge chair next to me.
Emerson’s jaw drops when he sees me in my bikini. Not his type my ass. He’s practically drooling.
I ignore him and dive into the pool.
He practically rips his t-shirt off, tosses it onto the lounge chair with my sweatshirt and jumps into the pool right next to me.
Luckily the pool is heated so it’s not the least bit chilly. Although the heat that is being generated between us right now may be enough to melt ice.
Emerson can’t seem to take his eyes off of me.
“You don’t think my swimsuit lacks style?” I tease.
He shakes his head.
“I’m not soulless,” I tell him.
He doesn’t reply. He just continues looking into my eyes. Is he trying to see if I really do have a soul somewhere deep inside of me? That’s what it feels like.
“What kind of music do you like?” I ask him. I always thought you could tell a lot about people by the music they listen to.
“I’m kind of old school. I listen to jazz mostly.”
“Me too.”
His eyes narrow like he doesn’t believe me. “Who are some of your favorite artists?”
“Nora Jones. Madeleine Peyroux. Melody Gardot. Dianna Krall.”
He nods. “Okay. I like where you’re headed. What about Billie Holiday and Nina Simone? Bessie Smith, Etta James, Shirley Horn?”
“Edith Piaf?”
He grins. “ Parlez-vous français ?”
“ Oui .”
“ J'ai pris quelques cours de français au Lycée .”
“ J'ai étudié le français à l'université .”
He closes the small distance between us. I can feel the heat radiating from his body.
“I’m a physicist, not a chemist, but I’m going to go out on a limb and say there’s definitely some chemistry between us.”
“Some?” I mutter.
“A lot,” he corrects.
“What now?”
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