One
Jesus, this stupid bikini was killing her.
Tess tugged on the bow digging into the back of her neck. “Dammit.”
She could only conclude that women with ginormous boobs, a long history of neck issues, and a decided intolerance for wardrobe-related discomfort should not wear halter tops. No matter what her friend Isabelle might argue about how the style flattered her body and the color suited her skin, blah blah blah.
Belle still harbored starry-eyed dreams of meeting her soulmate under swaying palms, a handsome hero of a man, one who would take one look at her cleavage and fall to his knees in worship to such mammarian bounty.
As of tomorrow, Tess was forty. She should know better.
Maybe a little adjustment might help. Could she tighten the back hooks to take more of her breasts’ weight and then loosen the neck ties? All without flashing some nip and traumatizing innocent spectators?
Dawn had broken mere minutes ago, and pink still streaked the eastern sky. Other than one oblivious guy a good distance away, she was all alone in the water, far from the other early-birds just now choosing their beach chairs and adjusting their umbrellas. Very few people on vacation, it seemed, rose before the sun. She wished she hadn’t either, but there was no escaping her body’s internal clock.
You could take the assistant principal out of the high school schedule, but you couldn’t take the high school schedule out of the assistant principal.
One last scan of her surroundings established that no one was looking her way, and her boobs were about to break her neck. She needed relief, stat. Belle also deserved to sleep longer on the first full day of their vacation, rather than have her foolish roommate reenter the room and wake her a second time.
Screw it. She was doing this here and now.
Tess waded farther into the turquoise depths surrounding the island, taking a moment to appreciate the natural beauty around her. This private, luxurious retreat off the Gulf Coast of Florida was famous for its clear, warm water, as well as its spotless beaches and countless amenities. And given how much of her savings this trip had consumed, she’d been relieved to confirm the truth behind all the hype.
Everything was perfect. Everything except the Bikini of Torment.
But she would fix that within seconds.
The island’s white sand slid between her toes, silky and soft, as the water moved over her waist, then her chest. Once the gentle waves lapped at her neck, she unhooked the back of the top, praying no one came closer. She’d keep an eye on the shore, just in case.
Under the circumstances, she couldn’t follow her usual bra-donning procedure: hooking in front, then rotating the entire garment one hundred and eighty degrees. Too great a risk of revealing her tatas to the world. Instead, she fumbled blindly beneath the water, attempting to locate the innermost eye with her top hook.
None of her increasingly frantic passes caught on anything, and her shoulders were starting to hurt. She lowered her arms for a moment, squeezing them tight against her sides to hold the top firmly in place. In a minute, she’d try again.
This bikini would not defeat her.
Probably.
When she’d shopped online—local brick-and-mortar stores didn’t stock cute plus-size swimsuits—for her upcoming birthday trip to the island, Tess had allowed herself to be persuaded by Belle. Yes, perhaps she could wear a bikini top without the usual buttresses and pulleys and cranes required to hoist her girls north of her navel. Yes, perhaps the thin strap fastened around her torso would take all the weight of her H-cup boobs. Yes, perhaps she should buy and pack a halter-top, in lieu of a standard bikini with thick straps and underwire that could serve as a garrote under different circumstances. Or, even better, a utilitarian tank with soft cups that would let her breasts hang virtually unhindered.
“Next time, I’m letting my sweet chariots swing low,” she muttered. “Or just going to the nude b—”
A wave suddenly rushed over her head, and her lungs filled with salt water. Choking and coughing, she flailed for the surface.
She caught a quick gasp of air before another abnormally high wave sent her under a second time. She scraped and tumbled against the sand, trying to figure out which way was up, before finally finding her feet. But then, as if nothing had happened, the ocean grew calm again, and she was standing once more in neck-deep water with only gentle undulations caressing her nape.
But something had happened. Four things, to be precise.
First of all, she was fighting to catch her breath through her coughing, but that was temporary. No real problem there.
Second of all, the tall dude in the distance was looking in her direction, but he couldn’t see her clearly from so far away, and he turned his back to her again as soon as he ascertained she wasn’t drowning.
Thank Christ for that.
Because third of all, her goddamn bikini top was…gone. Totally, irretrievably gone. Nowhere in sight. Either the knot at her neck had unraveled or the top had simply slipped over her head while she was underwater.
And that was a real problem, because fourth of all, a group of freakin’ kids—why the hell were they up so early?—was suddenly splashing into the water, shrieking happily as they tried to dunk one another. A couple of them were carrying floats and boards, and they appeared bound for deeper water.
Where she was. Topless. A high school assistant principal on a family beach.
She could see the mugshot and the local news headlines now: Buoys of Terror: Assistant Principal Dunn Corrupts Innocent Children with Her Enormous, Naked Gozangas.
No school would make her principal then. Certainly not Marysburg High.
Crossing her arms, she tried to cover as much surface area as she could, but there was no hiding that amount of boobage. Anyone who came close would know she wasn’t wearing a top, even if they couldn’t spy her nipples.
The room keycard tucked into a secret pocket in her bikini bottoms wouldn’t help her now, and neither would the towel she’d carefully spread onto her chosen beach lounger. Belle was still asleep in their room.
Sure, Tess could move further out into the water until the kids left, but they might follow her. Besides, she wasn’t a strong swimmer, and Shark Week had left certain indelible impressions on her brain. From what she’d seen through her fingers, braving deeper waters meant becoming human sushi. And at some point she was going to have to return to shore, children or no children.
There was only one thing that could help her. One person.
Shit. This was going to suck worse than the school’s last audit.
Careful to keep both nipples covered with her right arm—a harder task than she’d anticipated, given how her boobs’ natural buoyancy and the waves made them shift in the water—she waved her left and raised her voice loud enough for Oblivious Guy to hear.
“Hey! Excuse me, sir!”
He didn’t move.
She tried again, abandoning diplomacy in favor of specificity. “You there! The really tall dude with the brown hair and that cowlick in the back!”
At that, he turned and squinted in her direction.
The children were getting closer, their shouts becoming ever more piercing.
“Yes, you! With the, um”—no other good descriptor came to mind, since water covered most of him, including his swimwear—“shoulders! And the face! Can you please come here?”