“Why? You can’t swim?”
“Oh, I do swim. But I nearly drowned when I was little, and every time I don’t feel the bottom of the sea or the pool, I panic.”
“That blows. But sometimes pushing against a fear pays off. I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.”
His expression is warm and reassuring, and I believe him. It’s astonishing how much I trust him. I’m sharing things with him I usually only talk about to my family, and I fear I’ve started down a slippery path. Along with trust, I tend to give my heart.
I weigh the pros and cons of taking him up on his offer. I always did want to fight this irrational panic, but I feel a tingling in my neck, like spiders crawling up my throat, at the thought of being surrounded by all that bottomless water. Nope, can’t do it. Not even for the possibility of skin-on-skin contact—in my imagination, life vests or wetsuits don’t exist, and I’d snuggle up right behind him, my breasts pressing against his back, my arms circling his middle, fingers tracing the hard ridges of his abdomen before gripping him for support.
“I know, but... maybe another time. Oh, by the way, we’re organizing a bonfire tonight.” Having finished my muffin, I rub my hands together in excitement. “I’m dying for s’mores. I can roast marshmallows like nobody’s business. I even have my specialty.”
“Oh?”
“Wait and see. It’s delicious.”
He swallows, a playful glint in his eyes. “I bet.”
Holy Pop-Tarts and cupcakes. Is he flirting? Even if he is... I’m handling it.
“I bet everything you make is delicious.”
Still handling it. That slippery path feels like a steep glide. But stop just because I’m going down in flames? Not my style.
“Do you even like marshmallows?” I inquire.
“I’ll love yours.”
Folks, Alex Westbrook is flirting with me. It’s official, and I can’t lie to myself. I’m not handling it anymore. I’m a little hot and very, very bothered. We finish eating in companionable silence, and after breakfast, I use the quiet morning hours to finish a painting for my mom. I prop my canvas on my bungalow’s deck, placing it so I can glance at the water over it.
My hand moves of its own accord, across the canvas, stroke after stroke. Now, that’s what I call having a stroke of inspiration. Those muffins have the most peculiar effect on me this morning.
***
“Summer, this is perfect. Wow. You’re so good at this!” Elise exclaims later that evening. At seventeen, she’s one of the oldest girls at St. Anne’s. She asked me if I could braid her hair after the painting lesson finished. Braggart that I am, I showed her pictures of my nieces during the break, and she pointed out how beautifully their hair was braided.
“Thanks. My sisters kick ass at this, but I had plenty of practice on my nieces.”
She smooths her palm over the braid, her shoulders hunching a little. “It must be nice to be so close to your family.”
I press my lips together, nodding. Whenever I’m with the kids at St. Anne’s, I’m reminded not to take my family for granted. “Come on, let’s go get started on roasting those s’mores,” I say.
Turns out that a bonfire is a dangerous idea when a fourth of the kids running around are under ten, which seems to be the cutoff age for finding the idea of sticking your fingers into an open flame interesting. I also chug down non-alcoholic daiquiris like it’s nobody’s business, thirsty from all the effort.
“No, Bobby, I’ll give you the marshmallows as soon as they’re roasted.” I fend off six-year-old Bobby for the third time. Holy bejesus. I thought I had plenty of practice fending off kids from suicidal missions since I regularly babysit my nieces and nephews, but I’m in over my head. We’re six adults, supervising thirty kids, but I can only take a breather once everyone under the age of fourteen goes to bed.
When I’m done roasting, I take refuge on one of the rattan sofas. Well, it looks more like an apple than a sofa. It’s shaped like a globe, and I appreciate the rattan walls for shielding me from view. I love being with these kids, but I need a ten minute time-out. None of the kids discover my hiding spot, but Alex does.
“You’re right. Your marshmallows are delicious,” he says with a grin.
“Would you believe I didn’t even have one?”
“I know, I was watching you. You were in over your head, roasting for the kids flocking around you while trying to keep them out of the fire.”
“I was. But so were you. Why d’you have so much energy? I feel like I’ve just swam a mile and my arms will fall off.” Not to mention my head is spinning a little.
“I’ve had worse in training.”
“I’m dying for a marshmallow, but I have no energy to move.” I pout, massaging my temple.