The Unidentified Redhead (Redhead #1)(15)
Author: Alice Clayton

He laughed and joined me. Wordlessly, he began rolling back and forth as well, making me laugh harder. It was so easy, so authentic being with him. We both stopped and lay on our backs next to each other, looking up at the sky. The sun was out over the ocean, and I raised my legs. Pointing my toes, I covered up the sun with my feet and then moved them apart to reveal it again. I did this several times, when I noticed that Jack was staring at my legs. Gravity had pulled my yoga pants higher up, revealing the skin up above my knee.

Thank you, God, for the shaving reminder this morning.

He rolled over onto his side, propping his head up on his arm. I looked at him, but kept my legs in the air, pointed toes toward the sky.

“See something you like, Hamilton?” I retorted, waiting for his witty response.

“You have no idea,” he answered softly, his tone making my legs stop in midair. I brought them back down and rolled onto my side as well, facing him.

“I have some idea,” I stated, dragging my fingers through the soft sand between us. His hand began to creep toward mine. My heart stopped, then started up again, crazy fast.

“I was wondering about something,” he started.

“Yes?”

“Did you know that U2 is one of my favorite bands? I mean like, my absolute favorite band?” he asked, his hand dangerously close to mine.

“How would I know that? I just met you,” I asked. I picked up a shell to examine it, and put it down, moving my hand closer to his in the process.

“There’s all kinds of stuff on the Internet about me lately. You could’ve Googled it,” he stated, still moving his hand closer. I could feel the energy between us begin to hum again.

“I think that you should go Google your self, Brit boy. I’m not interested in Googling you.” I frowned, moving my hand back toward me slightly.

“Are you intrigued by film stars?” he asked slowly.

“Not particularly,” I lied. Only one …

“Are you intrigued by romantic beachside gestures?” he asked, moving his fingers so that they were an inch away from mine.

“Nope,” I said, barely breathing. His eyes were actually smoldering as they looked deeply into mine. A piece of his hair had fallen over his forehead and I was aching to sweep it back.

“Would you be intrigued by a film star that wanted to kiss you?” he breathed, his fingers finally touching mine. I paused as I looked back at him, almost panting.

“Mm-hm,” I whispered.

Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit.

His eyes were heavy as he gazed into mine. He closed the distance between us and his hand came up to my cheek. I could feel the sand that was still clinging to his fingers graze my skin, and it was cool. I was not.

He cupped my face gently as he moved toward me. All I could focus on were the perfect, soft-looking lips that were about to touch mine. I moved in to meet him and then closed my eyes. I knew if I had to look at him right now, I would lose my nerve.

I felt him even before I felt his lips. The energy between us shifted, and I knew exactly where he was. The instant before his lips met mine, I could tell that he was about to deliver a kiss that would stun me stupid.

It was soft and sweet. It was tentative and deliberate all at the same time.

He kissed me once, then again, and then a third time, with a little more grrr behind it. His scent, which up until now I had somehow overlooked, filled my nostrils. He smelled like sand and sun and sweat mixed with vanilla and smoke.

Not icky cigarette smoke, but like warm pipe tobacco and chimney smoke all rolled into one.

Sweet Jesus, he’s like your own personal S’more.

The combination was seriously messing with my head, as well as making my pants feel excessively confining. We broke apart and just looked at each other. I inclined my forehead to rest against his. Frankly I needed the prop. I was spinning.

He smiled first, and then I answered back with my own.

“Did you feel that?” he asked, concern crossing his face.

“Yeah, I felt it. You too?” I answered, flirting back.

“No, I mean, yes, obviously I felt that, but didn’t you feel that hit your head?” he asked, beginning to grin broadly.

“What are you talking about?” I asked, raising my hand up to my hair.

“Oh, Jesus, Grace, a seagull just shit on your head,” he stated, beginning to shake.

“What?” I shouted, springing up to run in circles.

Of course a seagull shit on my head.

His laughter rang out down the beach.

Chapter 8

Repeated rinses in the Gladstone’s bathroom and a roll of paper towels later, I emerged ready to face whatever was coming, and I knew there would be no mercy shown. Jack was waiting for me, and his face lit up when he saw me.

“Nice ‘do, Sheridan,” he joked. I had attempted to dry it with the hand blower, resulting in sticky strands radiating outward from my mortified face.

“Keep your f**king mouth shut or I will kick you next time I am wearing pointy shoes,” I warned, noticing how the wait staff was struggling not to laugh.

Obviously, Jack had clued them in to what had happened with the seagull. I knew, then, that he would never let this go.

I started walking toward the parking lot, when I heard one of the waiters say, “Miss? You forgot your doggy-bag!”

Don’t forget your leftover coconut shrimp. You’ll want that tonight at about midnight.

Never one to pass on food, I turned back around and went to grab it. I noticed that it was wrapped not in the traditional aluminum swan shape, but in the shape of a mother-loving seagull.

Blasted.

The entire staff started laughing aloud while Jack laughed harder. I sweetly smiled and took my shrimp, then informed him where he could stick his seagull.

He shook his head and walked with me out to the car, starting toward the driver’s side, when I stopped him.

“Oh, no, f**ko. Driving privileges are revoked. Keys, please.” I motioned with my hand as he withdrew them from his pocket.

“Oh, come on, Sheridan. That was hilarious! You’ll tell that story for the rest of your life. That was pure comedy. You can’t write shit like that!” he pleaded with me, handing me my keys and sinking into the passenger seat. “I can’t believe you’re pouting. You know bloody well if this happened to someone else, you would be in hysterics on the floor,” he continued.

“Listen, Johnny Bite Down.” I turned to him. “While I admit it would be slightly funny if it was someone else, it wasn’t. It was me. And until I have showered or removed my head from my body, or both, let’s not discuss it,” I snapped, peeling out of the parking lot and heading back toward Sunset. We were both quiet for a moment, and then I added, “Well, maybe it is more than slightly funny. But now I am gross and defiled. I feel violated.”