Just. Can’t. Do. It.
Also, there are extenuating circumstances here in the form of Oliver Harris. His form is an extenuating circumstance.
Six foot one. Built like the statue of David. Face carved by a sculptor too.
Did anyone look away when Daniel Craig got out of the water in his first James Bond film?
I rest my gaze.
I mean, I rest my case.
I snap my gaze up, meeting Oliver’s eyes. Those damn green eyes that are twinkling with mischief.
“So, does that work for you?” I ask, adopting the most casual tone I can. The kind of tone that says, I was so not looking at you as I totally focus on scheduling a get-together to discuss my new business venture.
His grin twitches.
Then, my longtime friend, in all his wet, toned, nearly naked glory, simply arches a brow, points to his irises, and dryly says, “You do know my eyes are up here?”
Dammit.
Caught red-handed.
I improvise, pointing to the pool behind him. “I was just looking in the shallow end. I was sure I saw Mrs. Wilson’s rose-gold bracelet at the bottom. She thought she lost it during the water aerobics class I just taught.”
So plausible. I could invent excuses for a living, surely.
He nods slowly, an I call bullshit nod. “Right. Did you want to go have a look? Pop into the water? Organize a search party?”
I tap my chin as if considering all three, then shake my head. “It was just wishful thinking. I looked pretty closely after class.” I sigh forlornly over the missing jewelry.
Magnanimously, he offers the goggles in his hand. “I insist. It’s Mrs. Wilson’s prized bracelet after all. Let’s have another go, shall we? I’ll help you. We’ll be like scuba divers searching for buried treasure.”
I’d give him points for holding his ground if he wasn’t holding it against me.
But I maintain the oh-so-innocent facade as I gesture to my jeans and sky-blue blouse. “No. I’m already dressed for work. Busy day at the residence. Thank you though. I’ll just let Lost and Found know to keep an eye out.”
He hooks his thumb toward the glistening water. A few solo swimmers power up and down the freestyle lanes. “Want me to jump in? Have a quick check?”
I wave him off. “No worries. I’ll find it later.”
“Are you sure? Might give you a better view of my arse. I’d appreciate an appraisal.”
And the sexy Brit wins the battle of wills.
I have no choice but to give him the all-the-way-to-Jupiter eye roll. “No need. I made my assessment that time you streaked naked across my backyard when we were sixteen. It’s a five, maybe a six on a good day.”
He peers over his shoulder at the backside in question, then parks his hands on his hips. “I beg your pardon. This is a top-notch arse here.”
I cross my arms and chuckle at the way he set up my victory shot. “Yes, indeed. I am definitely checking out a top-notch arse.”
Like a cartoon character muttering curses, he says under his breath, “Touché, woman. Touché.”
He steps toward me, shrugs a muscled shoulder, and gives me a smile from his cache of them—this one I’ve dubbed the disarming one. “Truth be told, I don’t mind if you gawk at the crown jewels. I wouldn’t tell you to look away from the works of art if you were at the Louvre.”
“Less like masterpieces and more like Velvet Elvises and paintings of dogs playing poker.”
The corner of his lips curves up. Why is it that infuriatingly good-looking men all have lopsided grins? Is it a standard feature when they’re assembled in the too-hot-for-words factory? Is it a custom order, or part of the Unfairly Handsome Package?
“Summer,” he chides gently. “You’ve been doing it since we were fourteen.”
Back then, I might have given in to the urge to swat him, but I don’t now. Instead, I grit my teeth, dig my heels in, and remind myself that even though he is the living, breathing embodiment of cocky male in the city, he is also the guy who has saved me many times.
And I’ve saved him more than once too.
But at the moment, I need to save face. I march to the nearby bench and grab one of the pieces of white cardboard they call gym towels here. Returning, I hand it to Oliver, raising my chin. “There. Now no one can admire the goods, such as they are.”
With an I’m about to give it right back to you chuckle, he takes the towel and pointedly refrains from wrapping it around his waist.
The cheeky fucker.
He drapes it over his shoulders then saunters to the side of the pool and leans against the wall, beckoning me. I follow, of course, because I need something from him.
Desperately.
“Tell me exactly what it is you need me to do this time,” he says. “Escort you to the wedding of a jackass you once dated? Train with you for a 10K to benefit Alzheimer’s? Or just look absolutely fantastic when I get out of the water?”
I huff. How can he be so endearing and such an ass at the same time? “Do you practice that, Oliver?”
