I know he’s thinking the same. I know he’s about to haul me back up into his arms and finish what we started at the restaurant.
Instead, he groans as if in pain, takes one look at me, and throws his hands up in the air.
“I think you should go to bed, Lindsey.”
BED?!
Now? Is he kidding?
“Why?”
He doesn’t answer.
Instead, he steps toward me, grabs my shoulders, and starts to gently push me in the direction of my room. “I want you to go into your room and shut the door and lock it. Can you do that?”
I shake my head as all the momentum of the last hour seeps out of me.
“What—why?”
“Because, Lindsey, I think you’re a good girl.”
I’m not, I want to tell him.
I left that girl behind in Boston.
But it’s too late.
I’m inside my room and he’s shutting the door as he leaves me in here.
Without him.
Five
One thing is for certain: if I wasn’t his sister’s best friend, Noah and I would have had sex four times over last night. If we were just two strangers who had met at that restaurant and started to dance, we would have been tugging our clothes off and romping in the sand within forty-five minutes of saying hello.
The issue is that Noah respects me too much. He doesn’t want to hurt me, and he likely doesn’t want to suffer the consequences of having a vacation fling with me, knowing we’ll have to face each other once we return to our normal lives in Boston.
The thing is, this isn’t just his decision.
What about what I want?
Last night, as I slipped into my pajamas and brushed my teeth, my stomach ached with the feeling of missed opportunity. I debated going back out into the living room and pleading my case.
I’m not a good girl!
Look, I’ll show you!
That’s when I would have performed some kind of sexy striptease, during which he’d fall to the floor in a puddle of lust while losing his mind, thus giving me the upper hand.
Instead, I cracked open the mini bar in my room, snagged some overpriced peanut M&Ms, and tucked myself right into bed.
I’m angry at myself for wimping out.
Especially as I roll onto my side and face the ocean just in time to see Noah finishing his workout. He must have gone on a run already. He’s slick with sweat. Shirtless. Tan. He’s using the shallow ledge of the terrace to aid him with push-ups. It’s a hard job to lie in bed and watch his muscles ripple in the early morning sun. A hard, hard job. I reach for the rest of the M&Ms I didn’t finish last night and take in the show. He’s set up a yoga mat—probably found in some closet in the villa I haven’t bothered searching through—so he can continue with some crunches next. Yes, I think. Better make that six-pack an eight-pack.
Another piece of chocolate melts in my mouth as he finishes a set and then stands, wiping sweat from his brow with a white towel.
His eyes glance to my bedroom window and he catches me red-handed. (Literally—some red M&Ms have melted onto my fingers.) I immediately squeeze my eyes shut, praying the tint on the glass makes it impossible for him to see in and witness me spying on him, but a moment later when I pry one eye open, he’s still standing there, eyes on me, smiling.
Ugh.
I sit up and shove the blankets off my body so I can walk to the sliding glass door and unlock it. I push it aside a few inches and smile.
“Restful morning?” he teases.
I roll my eyes. “I know you probably think I’ve just been lazing around all morning, but I’ll have you know I woke up at the crack of dawn and worked out for like two hours before showering and getting back into bed.”
“Is that right?”
“Uh-huh. No one’s more dedicated to fitness than me.”
“You’ve got an M&M wrapper stuck to your shirt.”
I look down and, sure enough, the crinkly yellow wrapper is stuck to my pajama top, just over my left boob.
I yank it off and toss it behind me.
“Those were just for protein. Don’t be confused—I hate sweets.”
“No, you don’t. You love to indulge.”
The way he says it sends a ripple of desire down my spine.
“Yes, well…on occasion.”
“Join me for breakfast in a bit? On the terrace?”
“Sure. Right after I shower.”
“I thought you already had.”
“I’m a very hygienic person, Noah.”
Before he can tease me further, I slide the door closed and run for the shower.
When I dress later, I toss aside any outfit that falls into the modest, family-friendly category. This is not the time to play coy. I just saw post-workout Noah in all his hunky glory, and he deserves to suffer the same fate.
I meet him outside thirty minutes later wearing a bikini and a cover-up. I have no idea if we’ll be going swimming today, but considering we’re on the beach, chances are pretty good. I almost feel sorry for him when I look down at my boobs. They look very good today, and my cover-up offers a tantalizing glimpse of my body.
I enjoy a private moment of triumph when he looks up at me as I walk out of the villa and his jaw goes slack for all of one millisecond before he regains his composure.
“You’ll have to change after breakfast,” he says, eyes darting back to the food on the table as if he’s trying to give himself a moment to cool down.
“Why?”
Too much for you to handle?
“We’re going out on an excursion with a guide from the hotel. There are ruins nearby that I read are worth checking out.”
I smile, glad he took the time to research the trip like I did. I’d hoped we’d make it out to the Tulum ruins and meant to ask the receptionist about it yesterday, but I got distracted. By him.
On the table, there’s an array of breakfast items: bagels and scrambled eggs, coffee cakes and fruit. I settle for some yogurt and fruit, watching as Noah lifts a piece of bacon to his mouth.
I ask him if he’s ever toured ruins before and he tells me about a trek he did in college, down to Machu Picchu with his dad. It’s different than what we’ll be doing today. From what I’ve heard, the Tulum ruins are set up so it’s more of a walking tour and less of a dangerous journey through the jungle.
When he went to Machu Picchu, Noah tells me he and his dad had to hike through dense vegetation with a guide on the way to the ruins. At night, they slept in tents and carried everything they’d need in big camping backpacks. There are easier ways to get there—namely by helicopter—but he wanted to do it the slow way. His dad took photos and documented their trip for a piece in The Times, and I tell him I’d like to read it when we get back to Boston.
He nods. “I think I have a copy saved somewhere. It’s a cool article.”
It’s hard not to be amazed by a guy like Noah. On paper, he’s intimidating. A handsome surgeon who’s well-traveled and well-read. A man who carries himself with an air of confidence and who seems, at any given moment, to be in total control of the world around him.
I wonder what he thinks of me.
I carry my own accomplishments, but does he realize? Does he see me beyond my friendship with Natalie?