The Unhoneymooners(41)

Ethan laughs from behind his hands, and I dip my foot into the water. Warmth engulfs me—it’s almost too hot—and I hiss as I sink deeper into the water. It feels unreal, the heat and bubbles all along my skin.

I let out a shaky breath. “Oh God, this feels so good.”

His back straightens.

“You can look. I’m decent,” I say.

He lowers his hands, expression wary. “That’s debatable.”

Jets pulse against my shoulders and the bottoms of my feet. My head lolls to the side. “This feels so good, I don’t even care what you say.”

“Well then, I wish I had the energy to say something really bright.”

I snort out a laugh. I feel drunk. “I am so glad I’m allergic to shellfish.”

Ethan sinks lower into the water. “I know we’re paying the price, but did you have fun today?”

Maybe it’s the fact that the hot water has left me more Jell-O than sore muscles and bruises, but I actually did. “Even considering I had to throw away my favorite tennis shoes and can barely sit? Yeah, I did. You?”

“I did. Actually, aside from the whole Sophie thing, this vacation hasn’t been completely terrible.”

I peek at him through one eye. “Whoa, easy on the flattery.”

“You know what I mean. I thought I’d hang by myself at the pool, eat too much, and head home with a tan. I thought I’d tolerate you.”

“I feel like I should be offended by that, but . . . same, really.”

“Which is why it’s so crazy to be here.” Ethan motions around us before stretching to reach a pair of bottled waters on the ledge of the tub. My eyes follow the movement, the way the muscles of his back bunch and then lengthen, the way droplets of water roll off his skin. So much skin. “God, your sister would freak if she could see us now.”

I blink back to attention, reaching for the bottle he hands me. “My sister?”

“Yeah.”

“My sister thinks you’re cool.”

“She . . . really?”

“Yeah. She hates all the trips you and Dane go on, but she doesn’t get my Ethan hate.”

“Huh,” he says, considering this.

“But don’t worry, I’m not going to tell her I’ve enjoyed small snippets of your company. A smug Ami is the worst Ami.”

“You don’t think she’ll be able to tell? Don’t you guys have some kind of twin telepathy or something?”

I laugh as I twist open my water. “Sorry to disappoint you, but no.”

“What’s it like having a twin?”

“What’s it’s like not having a twin?” I reply, and he laughs.

“Touché.”

Ethan must be warm because he slides back a little before moving to a different bench inside the hot tub, one that’s a little higher and leaves more skin exposed to the air.

The problem, you see, is that it also leaves more skin exposed to me.

A lot more.

I see shoulders, collarbones, chest . . . and when he reaches up to push his hair off his forehead, I’m shown several inches of abs below his nipples.

“Have you guys always been so . . .” He trails off, waving a lazy hand like I know what he’s asking.

And I do. “Different? Yeah. According to my mom, since we were babies. Which is good, because trying to keep up with Ami would have driven me insane by now.”

“She’s definitely a lot. Is it weird now that she’s married?”

“It’s been different since she met Dane, but that was bound to happen, you know? Ami’s life is plugging along like it’s supposed to. I’m the one who stalled out somewhere.”

“But that’s all about to change. That’s got to be exciting.”

“It is.” It’s strange to be talking about this stuff with Ethan, but his questions seem genuine, his interest sincere. He makes me want to talk, to ask questions. “You know, I don’t think I know what you do for a living. Something with math? You showed up to Ami’s birthday party in a suit and tie, but I just assumed you’d evicted some orphans or put small mom-and-pop shops out of business.”

Ethan rolls his eyes. “I’m a digital identification planner for a research company.”

“That sounds made up. Like in Father of the Bride when she tells Steve Martin that her fiancé is an independent communications consultant, and he says that’s code for ‘unemployed.’ ”

He laughs over the top of his water bottle. “We can’t all have jobs as self-explanatory as ‘drug dealer.’ ”

“Har, har.”

“Specifically,” he says, “I specialize in budgetary analysis and breakdown, but in simple terms I tell my company how much each of our clients should spend on digital advertising.”

“Is that fancy for ‘Boost this Facebook post! Put that much on Twitter!’?”

“Yes, Olive” he says dryly. “That’s often what it is. Mostly, you’re right, it’s a lot of math.”

I scrunch up my face. “Hard pass.”

He lets loose a shy smile that rattles my bones. “Honestly? I’ve always loved geeking out about numbers and data, but this is next level.”