Heat

It had to do with something Martin had said the night before, just before we’d eaten our tacos.

Last night, after Martin grabbed a clean beach towel from the dryer, we left the laundry room of sensual promise. We held hands as we navigated the party; navigating the party with Martin was quite different than navigating it on my own. The sea of bodies parted—people catching sight of him or sensing him, all moved out of his way.

He steered us back to the deck, then continued his hasty strides toward the pool. Along one of the walls were three outdoor shower stalls. Martin turned on a shower, set the temperature to warm, and pulled me under with him, rinsing the last of our encounter from our skin.

This left me feeling both cleaner and dirtier. Cleaner for obvious reasons. Dirtier, because he made no attempt to school his expression as he looked at me. Clearly, he appreciated my form; his eyes followed the trail of water as it flowed over my shoulders, between my breasts, down my stomach and legs. Under the burden of his scorching gaze, I attempted to remind myself of my feminist ideals, that I was not put on this earth to be attractive to men.

But those ideals felt really faraway, maybe a little naïve, and a lot inconvenient.

Being desired and desirable was a heady feeling. It was addictive; it felt really, really good. And the way Martin looked at me and desired me, with forceful concentration and barely restrained intensity, made me wonder if Oreos and yoga pants were all that great after all.

That thought felt like sacrilege.

Then he bent and whispered in my ear, “All I can think about is touching you.”

At the time, the comment made me hot all over because all I could think about was Martin touching me.

But in the clear light of early afternoon it made me realize that the touching—though verra verra nice—might actually be the problem.

Sam was, once again, sleeping in the bed with me. I’d tried to explain what had happened with Martin at the party, the PG version, and how we’d misinterpreted the kiss. She interrupted my explanation to tell me she already knew we’d misinterpreted the kiss. Apparently Sam had taken it upon herself at the party to confront the leggy blonde, Danielle, on my behalf. Danielle admitted that Martin wasn’t interested. Sam then spent most of the night trying to find me to tell me the news.

Once she spotted me eating tacos with Martin she figured he’d found me and we’d worked it out.

However, Sam made it a point to insist that she and I sleep together. I think, in a way, we’d become each other’s chastity belts. If we were sleeping with each other then we couldn’t be doing more than sleeping with anyone else.

I left the bed quietly, showered, changed into shorts and a T-shirt, then went in search of Martin. I found Ray and Griffin first. They were on the multi-level balcony that ran the length of the back of the house. To my surprise, they were studying.

Ray informed me that Martin might not be up yet as it was one of the only mornings they’d planned not to practice.

“He tries to sleep in for as long as possible if there’s no practice,” Ray explained. “But I can tell you where his room is. I don’t think he’d mind if you woke him up.”

“Hmm…” I hesitated. I didn’t want to interrupt his sleep, especially if he rarely had an opportunity to sleep in.

“I don’t think he’d mind at all,” Griffin added with a dimpled grin, his brown eyes moving in slow appraisal from my ankles to my eyes.

I gave him a narrowed glare. He looked like the type to eat lo mein leftovers if given the opportunity.

“Sure, okay,” I said to Ray. “Can you draw me a map?”

While Ray pulled out a blank piece of paper to draw a diagram of the house, Griffin returned my suspicious gaze with a teasing twist of his lips.

“So your grandfather is an astronaut?”

I nodded. “Yep.”

“And your mom, she’s the senator, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Didn’t your grandma work on the atomic bomb, or something?”

“Something like that.” My maternal grandmother was a physicist. She didn’t work directly on the Manhattan project, but she did help the US government equip the earliest nuclear submarines.

“Must be weird coming from such a famous family.”

I wrinkled my nose. “We’re not famous.”

“That’s not true. You’re like American royalty. Isn’t your dad the president of something?”

“No. He’s a dean at a college of medicine.”

Griffin blew out a low whistle, his gaze growing less appraising and more introspective. He sat up straighter, his face and tone becoming serious, almost reverent. “So, you’re like really smart then, right? What are you going to do? What’s your major? You’ll probably cure cancer or something.”

I stared at him for a beat, not wanting to respond. I was proud of my family, but their accomplishments were not my accomplishments, their ambitions were not my ambitions.

For better or for worse, our ceiling and our floor are initially judged by our ancestry. People expected me to reach for the stars.

I was smart, but I wasn’t a genius physicist working on nuclear submarines, or an astronaut, or the dean of a college of medicine. I didn’t have the drive for greatness. I lacked the patience required for that kind of pressure. I had the drive for normalcy and anonymity and playing around on my guitar.

I shifted my gaze to Ray’s and found him watching me, his eyebrows suspended over his eyes, as though to say, See. You’re the ultimate marriage girl.

I ignored Griffin’s question, giving him a tight, noncommittal smile, then affixed my attention to Ray. “So, Ray, how close are you to being done with that map?”

***

Martin was asleep when I found him. He was shirtless, all tangled up in his simple brown sheets and comforter on a twin bed that looked too small for him. He held a pillow to his chest, another was at his back, and another under his head. The twin bed was pushed against a corner; he’d surrounded himself on all sides with cushy comfort, like he was being embraced while he slept.

The size of the bed surprised me. I was also surprised by how small his room was. It was maybe double the size of just the king bed I’d been sleeping in and was sparsely furnished, like a real bedroom might be. In addition to the twin bed, there was a dresser with no mirror, a desk with a simple wood chair, and a side table. Stuff littered the surfaces like a person really lived here.

It was the opposite of the palatial suite he’d put me in. My room was a fantasy of sterile white and luxury, the kind of room you’d see in a fancy magazine. His was cozy, messy, and real. It reminded me of my room at my parents’ house.

I watched him sleep for a full minute, hovering at the entrance to the room like a creeper. This thought made me smile. Instead of being a hovering, indecisive creeper, I decided to close the door behind me and sit at his desk, be a full-fledged lurking creeper instead, maybe give him a little fright when he woke up and found me staring at him. This thought made me laugh with sinister glee.

I pulled out the chair and was just arranging myself when Martin scared the crap out of me. He sat up, grabbed me, pulled me into his arms, and brought me to the bed. He then rolled me under him and pinned me to the mattress.

“Ohmygod, Martin!” The wind was driven from my lungs by fright. “You scared me!”

He was planking on the mattress, his eyes piercing yet laughing, touching me only where his hands held my wrists above my head. “Good morning, Parker.”

“How long have you been up?” I scowled at him, willing my heart to calm and the brief spike of adrenaline to recede.

“For about five minutes. I was up when you knocked and I heard the door open.” He grinned down at me. His voice was deliciously roughened by sleep.

“Do you always grab girls and throw them on your bed when you wake up?”

“Only if that girl is Kaitlyn Parker.”

I appreciated that he’d just used my own line against me and I shook my head at his shenanigans. This seemed to make him happy because his eyes lit with menacing satisfaction.

But then the longer we stared at each other the thicker the air grew between us, and the more difficult it became for me to breathe. His gaze also changed and lit with a new flame, both ominous and hungry. I momentarily forgot why I was there and what my super genius idea had been. All I knew was that his look held the promise of something that was going to feel fantastic.

“I like you here,” he whispered, his eyes half lidded as they moved to my mouth, lingered there.

“You like me where?”

“In my bed. Being in my bed every morning should be one of your life rules.”

“Oh…” Every inhale felt painful, tight.

“All I can think about is touching you,” he said, lowering himself to kiss me.

It was the key phrase and it sparked my memory. I remembered why I was there. I remembered my super genius idea.

“Wait!” I said, turning my face to the side.

“Wait?”

“Yes, wait. I have an idea and it involves you not kissing me.”

“That sounds like a terrible idea.” He nuzzled my neck, licking my throat, using his hot breath to make me squirm.

“It also involves you letting me go.”