“I cannot go to my sister’s wedding smelling like sea water and Sauvignon Blanc. I am not a drunk turtle.”
He bent forward, shoulders shaking.
Oh no. I wasn’t going to have that.
I grabbed the other full glass and tossed it over him.
He froze.
I did, too.
I bit my lower lip, holding it between my teeth to hide a smile as he slowly, so very fucking slowly, raised his head.
“You did not just throw wine at me,” he said in a low voice.
“You did it to me first.”
“That was an accident.”
“So was that. I went to drink, then, whoops! My wrist flicked and it went all over you,” I said, doing the motion with the glass in my hand.
“Poppy…” There was an edge of a warning to the way he said my name.
I had only one option.
Run.
I scrambled up from the blanket and with a shriek, hit the sand. He was right behind me, and I barely made it ten feet before he circled me with his arms and lifted me up.
“No, no, no!” I laughed, gripping onto his forearms.
“You didn’t think you could outrun me, did you?” He spun, and I squealed.
“Yes!” I was still laughing. “It was worth a try.”
“Silly girl. You can’t outrun me.” Now, he was laughing. “You did it on purpose.”
“Fine! If I admit it, will you let me go?” My toes touched the sand.
“Yes.”
“It was deliberate. I threw it on you on purpose as payback.”
“Right.” His grip tightened on me and he lifted me again, this time spinning me several times, round and round.
“Adaaaaaaam!” I screamed. “Nooooo!”
Sure. I was screaming. But I was laughing, too. It was ridiculous, being spun around at twenty-four, but also weirdly fun.
It didn’t hurt that I was being spun around by however many pounds of smoking hot muscle.
One more spin and he put me down. My feet touching the sand had never felt so good, and I laugh-wheezed when he released me. I’d barely caught my breath when he stepped in front of me, cupped my face, and planted a huge kiss on my lips.
“Go and shower before I do it again,” he said in a low voice.
“You wouldn’t dare.”
He took one step toward me.
You know what?
I wasn’t going to stay to find out, because I had a feeling he would.
The sound of his laughter following me up the beach as I ran away confirmed that.
***
“You’re late!” My mother barked the second I walked into Rosie’s suite.
“By five minutes. I had to shower.” I pointed to the towel still on my head.
“No excuses.”
“Mom, lay off her.” Rosie appeared from the bathroom. Her hair was done, and so was her makeup. Her makeup was flawless and natural, showing off the brightness of her eyes and the handful of freckles that were scattered over her nose. Her hair was pulled back at the front, two tiny French braids running along the sides of her head. The rest fell around her shoulders in loose curls. Tiny flowers dotted the braids, and one large one covered the place at the back of her head where the braids met.
“What?” she said, switching her attention to me.
“Nothing. You just look beautiful.” I reached out and squeezed her hand.
“I know.” She winked, and we both laughed. “Why are you late?”
“Adam threw wine on my hair.”
She shrugged. “That happens when you make out on a beach.”
I rolled my eyes. “Lay off me.”
She grinned. “Come sit down. Lori will get your hair done.”
I allowed myself to be guided toward a dining table that was littered with all manner of hair-things. Rosie sat me in one chair, nodded to a brunette, and that was that.
I sat for an hour being preened and primed. This had to have been how the Kardashians felt every morning. How did people cope with it? My head was tugged left and right. Brushes and wands and sponges and whatever else assaulted my face. I was on the verge of telling everyone I’d had enough when I was given the all-clear and told to get up.
I looked in the mirror.
Well, damn.
I looked good.
My makeup was the same natural style as my sister’s, and one side of my red hair had been pulled back and secured with a large white flower. The contrast of it against my hair was striking, and damn it, I felt pretty.
The bridesmaids all helped each other into our dresses. They were pale pink and flattering on all of our body shakes. The asymmetrical hems combined with a full but light lace skirts hid a multitude of sins, and the soft v-necks and spaghetti straps meant all our girls were supported even though we were all braless.
My sister had found wedding beach shoes that weren’t shoes at all, but rather material that tied around our ankles and went down to loop over our second toes so we were essentially barefoot.