Bad Cruz(29)

I propped my cheek against the sunbed, staring at him through my shades.

“You really like being everyone’s hero, don’t you?” There was no cure for my pettiness where this man was concerned.

“What’s not to like?”

He braced the sunbed from both sides, his biceps poking out, his six-pack on full display. Beside them, his apple was eaten to the core. He’d demolished it.

I wonder if he eats his apple the way he eats pu…

“Heroes are such simple creatures,” I heard myself exclaim passionately. “I, for one, am always hot for the villain in the movies.”

“That could explain a few things about your life.”

“Hey.” I curved an eyebrow. “You calling your best friend a villain?”

Now that Rob was back in town, I was sure he and Cruz would rekindle their bromance.

“No, I’m calling you a woman with very few scruples.”

I laughed throatily, turning on my back and propping one leg over the other. I noticed that not even Saint Cruz was able to rip his eyes from my swollen breasts, which made the strings holding my bikini top work extra hard.

“Nice truce, we’ve got here.”

“What can I say? You bring out the worst out in me.” He shook his head.

“Then why did you save me from Mr. Douchebag?”

“Only one person is allowed to give you a hard time on this cruise, and that person is me.”

I mulled his words over.

On one hand, I liked the fact that despite our banter, Cruz Costello truly was completely harmless, in a sense that I knew he would never be cruel or downright mean to me. He just didn’t have it in him. He was genuinely a good guy, and he would never do anything to spite me. He would protect me from Dales.

On the other hand, that was precisely what made him so dangerous. He was lovable to a fault, and I…well, I couldn’t fall in love. I couldn’t afford the distraction.

As it was, I was flailing to survive.

And he had Gabby. Or not? Why tell me that?

When I realized we’d been silent for over a minute, I told Cruz, “Look, we need to try to be cordial with one another. It’s important to Trinity and Wyatt.”

“I’m cordial.”

“Can you pretend I don’t appall you?” I stressed.

“I can try.”

“Good. Your approval of me in Fairhope is like getting absolution from the pope. While you’re at it, my eyes are up here.” I motioned to my face, when it became apparent Dr. Costello couldn’t stop looking at my cleavage.

His cheekbones flushed pink, and he swung his gaze to the pool.

“You’re wearing shades,” he said.

“Then look elsewhere.”

“Already on it.”

“They’re not fake, you know.”

I sniffed. It was one of the many rumors about me around Fairhope. That I got myself a new pair of tits for my eighteenth birthday to try to bag a wealthy husband who’d accept my toddler son as a package deal.

In truth, my breasts just never fully bounced back (pun definitely intended) from being Bear’s open buffet for the two years I breastfed him (formula costs a fortune).

“I never bought into those rumors.”

“Then why were you looking?” I challenged.

“Because I’m a red-blooded man, and you’re…” He stopped himself from finishing the sentence.

“What?” I asked, almost frantically.

Up until a second ago, I found it impossible to believe he found me more attractive than a warm bucket of spit.

“Nothing.”

I ripped the shades from my face, swinging my legs across the sunbed and sitting up straight. My harlot smile was scarlet-red and on full display.

“What am I, Cruz?”

“Hot,” he said gruffly, his voice low and measured and full of the things he wanted to do to me. “Extremely hot.”

“You think?”

“Now you’re just fishing.”

“Humor me,” I pouted.

“Why?”

He rubbed the bridge of his nose, which was slightly pink in comparison to the rest of his bronze self.

Ha!

So Cruz Costello didn’t get an amazing tan all over. This insignificant imperfection made me feel way more happy than I should.

“Because we have eight more days after today to spend together in a stateroom the size of a postage stamp, and I want to know what to expect.”

“An abundance of alone time and zero hanky-panky.”

“You just said hanky-panky.” I may or may not have giggled.

“You say gasshole, lady. And I’m leaving.”

But he didn’t stand up, and I suspected I knew why. My eyes slid down to his crotch.

He shifted on the orange Moroccan deck chair, crossing his legs.

I pouted, pretending not to notice. “Not good enough for you, am I?”

“You’re full of bull, Tennessee Lilybeth Turner. You wouldn’t have me if I were the last man on Earth.”

He remembered my middle name.

A flutter passed under my belly button.

“And why do you think that is?”

“Because you hate men.” His ’stache twitched. “All of them. No exceptions. We scare you. You do realize Bear’s going to grow up to become one, too, right?”