Page 66 of From Coast to Coast
“Oh, yeah, for sure.” He relaxes a little bit, no longer worried that I’m about to make fun of his mom or her gift. “There are a lot of farmer’s markets and craft fairs around here. She has a lot of regulars that will just show up at her house and buy stuff from her. It’s pretty wild.”
I put everything back on the counter. “This is incredibly thoughtful. I’d like to thank her in person, if you’re planning a visit while we’re here. Or, if you’d prefer, I can send her a?—”
“I want you to meet her,” he interrupts. “I told her about you; that you were coming. She’s excited to meet you.”
I want to ask exactlywhathe told her about me. About us. I doubt he disclosed the exact nature of our relationship, but the thoughtfulness of the gift suggests he’s talked about me enough for her to know I prefer tea to coffee, and that I’m obsessed with the way her son smells. Instead of pressing him for more information, I put it on the back burner for now. Today I just want to enjoy his company without worrying about what we are or what our future looks like.
As I suspected, Remy on the beach is sexy enough to have me half-hard every time I look at him for too long. His shorts are slung low enough on his hips to show a fair amount of V-line, and they hug his muscular thighs and ass in a way that borders on obscene. He walks in front of me as we head down from his house toward the sand, and I wish I had my phone with me to take a picture of how he looks from behind. All of that bronze skin shining in the sun. The soft, blond baby hairs on the back of his neck, and the dimples at the base of his spine. He reaches a stretch of sand that looks exactly the same as the rest and drops our towels down. Turning, he puts one hand on his hip and reaches the other out to tug on the front of my shirt.
“Time to take this off,” he tells me and then steps close enough to help me do so. Again, the desire to ask him what’schanged is strong. He’s been different from the second we arrived; changed even from how he acted when we met up in January. Only weeks separate the last time we were together, but he’s different enough that I can’t help but give in to hope.
Remy walks straight into the ocean and dives under the water. I follow more carefully. I know how to swim, but I’m not confident enough in my abilities to be totally comfortable in the ocean. The second the water laps against my ankles, I shake my head and step back. Remy, floating a little way away, smiles.
“Nope,” I say, and he laughs.
“Come on, it feels good.”
“It’s freezing, Remy! That water is probably fifty degrees.” I step forward again until the water level reaches my calves, but keep watch for any stray waves. I’m suddenly wary of getting soaked.
“It’s notthatcold. Sixty at the lowest. It’s refreshing!” He splashes a little water my way. “I thought Canadians were supposed to be tough? You’re practically half polar bear.”
“Canadian isn’t synonymous with stupid. Swimming in frigid water is stupid.”
He laughs again, the sound carrying over the water. I step a little closer, letting the water rise to the bottom of my board shorts. I’m weighing my options: stay on the beach where it’s warm, or swim out and possibly get frostbite. It’s not really a choice at all though because only one of those options has Remy in it.
He slowly swims backward as I walk toward him, not stopping until both of us are far enough out that our feet don’t touch the bottom. The ocean is flat today, with barely any waves disturbing the surface. Remy swims close enoughto cup a hand around my ribs, legs bumping mine as we lazily tread water. His eyelashes are clumped together with moisture; drops of water dotting his cheeks and trailing down from his hair.
“Warmer?”
“Sure, but only because my skin is numb.”
“I’ll heat you up later. Promise.”
His hand slides down my side until he can curl his fingers into the waist of my shorts. I hope it’s simply his way of keeping us from drifting apart in the water and not his way of trying to initiate a hand job. There is no way I’m getting hard until I thaw out.
“You miss living here,” I comment, and he smiles sadly.
“Yeah. Nothing against Canada, but it’s not for me. Especially now that you’re gone. They’ve been dropping hints about offering me an extension, but I’m going to say no. I’d rather have the uncertainty of free agency than another season with those jackasses.”
Not for the first time, I feel bad for leaving. I don’t apologize, though, because we both play the game and know the rules.
“L.A. might not re-sign you, though.” He grimaces, but nods. “I did hear a rumor, though, when I visited Troy for a couple days over Christmas. Corwin mentioned there’s talk of another team coming to the west.”
“No shit. All new or are they moving an established team?”
“No idea. Rumors at this point. But California is a big state; it wouldn’t be beyond reason for them to have two NHL teams.”
He smiles and tips his head back, hair fanning outward in the water. I stare at the column of his throat—the smoothexpanse unbroken by facial hair. His Adam’s apple looks the same as any other, but is somehow sexier. Saltwater trickles down his skin, and I want to lick it away.
“I’m not interested in dating other people,” I blurt out, taken in by the sudden madness of Remy being so close physically, but far away emotionally.So much for just enjoying the day before bringing up the hard stuff.
“What’s that?” he asks, lifting his head back out of the water.
“I don’t want to see other people. At all.”Ever.
He moves a little closer, either by his own doing or the ocean’s. His fingers are still holding my waistband, warm and steady against the cool of the water.
“Me either,” he agrees.