Bad Cruz

“She your wife?” Douchebag Dale mumbled.

“The one and only,” Cruz replied. “The lucky Mrs. Weiner.”

“Weiner,” DD repeated, giving a Beavis-and-Butthead type snort.

“Problem?” Cruz asked.

“No. No. Great last name. German, right?”

There was a pause. Cruz picked up the sunscreen beside me, squirted a generous amount of white lotion onto his hand, and began massaging my back with it.

Holy wow, this feels good.

“Gotta keep you safe from the sun,” he said with the apple still trapped between his teeth. “You know I’m the only thing allowed to make your behind red.”

Oh. My. Grub.

His hands were strong and confident, his fingers long, and I told myself I was letting him do this because I didn’t need another fight on my hands with a Costello.

Not because it was stirring all kinds of things in the lower region of my body, or because the minute his skin touched mine, I realized that my back had really needed a massage for the last decade or so.

“You’re still here,” Cruz said casually, referring to Douchebag Dale. “Do you want your face punched, or are you waiting for me to forget you’re hitting on my wife and go grab myself a beer?”

“Uhm. Yeah. No. I’m…” Young Dale stood up, looking around him, as if he forgot something. Maybe his pride. “Sorry. My dad…I mean, bad! My bad.”

“Go on. And tell your friends she’s taken, too. I don’t want to see any of y’all getting anywhere near my missus.”

Cruz made a show of flexing his muscles, giving Dale a front-row ticket to the gun show.

I had to admit, I was impressed.

I knew Cruz was a runner and that he took it upon himself to coach the T-ball little league at our local elementary school (which, frankly, I found creepy considering he had no kids there), but I didn’t know he was that ripped.

He was considerably taller than Dale and had at least twenty more pounds of muscle on him.

“All right. Yeah. Fair.”

As soon as Dale was gone, Cruz withdrew his hands from me as fast as humanly possible, shifting to the sunbed next to mine. I mourned the loss of his touch, but celebrated the fact I might get to relax enough to nap under the sun for a couple more hours before dinner, now that the frat boy was gone.

“You’re welcome,” Cruz said, when I didn’t offer him a thank you.

I propped my cheek against the sunbed, staring at him through my shades.

“You really like being everyone’s hero, don’t you?” There was no cure for my pettiness where this man was concerned.

“What’s not to like?”

He braced the sunbed from both sides, his biceps poking out, his six-pack on full display. Beside them, his apple was eaten to the core. He’d demolished it.

I wonder if he eats his apple the way he eats pu…

“Heroes are such simple creatures,” I heard myself exclaim passionately. “I, for one, am always hot for the villain in the movies.”

“That could explain a few things about your life.”

“Hey.” I curved an eyebrow. “You calling your best friend a villain?”

Now that Rob was back in town, I was sure he and Cruz would rekindle their bromance.