Page 74 of Best Wrong Thing

Logically, I know that, but fear isn’t logical.

“Let’s keep things the way they are,” he says.

They’re already changing, like a seismic shift beneath my feet. We’ve told each other we like each other. We’ve agreed to spend time together beyond the fuck-buddy relationship.

“We act indifferent to each other in front of Mum and your dad. We’re going on trips together because we enjoy sightseeing. The simpler we keep things, the less likely we’re going to trip up,” he says.

I nod.

He smiles and rests his head on my shoulder once more. “Right now, I’m going to enjoy the rest of the journey home.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s just you and me, and I get to be close to you.”

I put my arm around him again and lean my cheek on his head.

“Don’t think beyond the moment,” he whispers.

“All that matters is you and me.”

“Exactly.”

I close my eyes. “Thank you. I’ve had a great day.”

He squeezes my hand. “Me too.”

Chapter 18

Archer

The villa is too small, but it’s too hot to walk along the beach. At least in the rainforest, we found shade under the trees. Mum spent all morning on a sunbed. She had a break for lunch, which she insisted we ate together, then returned to worship the sun. How can she do it? I’m going out of my mind, and I’ve been reading and checking out job adverts back home.

Jacob and I are like two prowling lions, never getting too close to each other. I can’t stop glancing at him, though. Any chance I get, when I’m sure neither Mum nor Barry is paying me any attention, I look his way. We were so hands-on yesterday that being completely the opposite today is torture. Why didn’t we book more trips? Oh, right, because I’m not exactly loaded. Yes, Barry offered to pay for trips, but Jacob didn’t seem happy with that plan. Plus, it doesn’t feel right to use Barry’s money to get close to Jacob.

Jacob is cutting an orange. He’s wearing the T-shirt I bought him and a pair of casual, knee-length shorts. His feet are bare. I rake my teeth over my bottom lip. He’s hot. I want to wander over to him, put my hands on his hips, and kiss his neck and jaw. But I can’t. My fingers tingle with need. I’m hot under the collar, even though I’m sitting in the flow of the air conditioner. Iwant to talk to him and laugh with him. I want to run my fingers through his messy hair. I want to have a siesta with him and doze the afternoon away.

I want doesn’t get.

Why am I doing this to myself?

Jacob has made it clear that our relationship must stay secret. Deep down, I know we have no future together, but that doesn’t stop me—the king of living in the moment—from daydreaming about waking up in his arms each morning, not having to feign indifference, and bringing our feelings for each other out into the open.

I should walk away from him. Instead, I want to run to him.

He puts the slices of orange into four glasses, fills them with iced water, and puts them on a tray. He turns, his gaze colliding with mine. My cheeks flush as I look away. I wasn’t staring. Nope. Not at all.

He strides over to me. “Drink?” His voice is stiff.

“Sure. Thanks.”

He hands me a glass, and our fingers brush. It’s not enough.

“Stop staring,” he whispers.

“It’s not my fault. It’s yours.”

He knits his brows. “How do you work that one out?”