Page 28 of Yard Sale

They were all unoccupied because in spite of the breeze coming off the water, there wasn’t any cloud coverage, and it was hot as balls and as humid as Satan’s ass crack.

I gave him a slow look up and down. “Yeah, I don’t think so.”

His brows shot up, and he turned his head toward me. “Sorry?”

I almost laughed. Fuck, I loved the way Canadians said sorry. From his background, I knew he didn’t grow up in Canada the way Micah and Jonah had, but there were bits and pieces still in his accent.

Clearing my throat, I took a shuffling step closer to him, and when he didn’t react, I could tell he couldn’t see me. “So, you’re Canadian.”

“Uh. Okay? Get to the fucking point, Aravind.”

God, why did the one person who used my full name properly have to be this man?

“You’re not going to survive in this heat. You’re pasty, Tiago. You’ll crisp.”

He snorted, then swiped his cane out until it thudded against one of the Adirondack chairs. Spinning, he took a seat and made a surprised face as he sank all the way back, but then he settled and smirked up at me.

“I’ll be fine.”

I doubted he’d be fine. It was hot for me, and I spent half my childhood summers either running in the streets of Bangladesh or in fucking Vegas when my dad was playing there. But I wasn’t going to attempt to steal his pride.

No. I’d wait a little while, until he was willing and ready to hand it over, then I’d walk his stubborn ass inside and take him to one of the cushy recliners and get him a damn water.

“See you.” I hesitated for a moment, and then he cleared his throat.

“I know you’re still there.”

Flushing, I turned and hurried off, letting the heavy entryway door slam behind me. Unfortunately, the first table I grabbed had the perfect view of the back of his head as he sat on his chair and roasted.

I could see wisps of black locks blowing in the breeze and the way his ears were slowly starting to turn red. He probably didn’t remember sunblock either.

Jackass.

Pressing my face into my hands, I took a deep breath and told myself I would wait ten more minutes.

I lasted five, and it was only five because that was how long it took for me to get an icy bottle of water from the cooler and pay the woman at the register, who was probably born in 1919. She gave me change with shaking, paper-thin fingers, then waved me off like she was desperate to see me go.

Making my way across the floor, I tried to move my body in time with the way the ferry was swaying, and I made it outside in time to see Tiago tipping his head forward.

The poor bastard was sweating from his temples, rivers of moisture running down the back of his neck.

“You look thirsty.”

He let out a long string of French Canadian swears before turning his head. He’d taken his sunglasses off and was rubbing at his eyes. “Are you going to be this much of a pain in the ass for the entire trip?”

“If you’re going to sit out here and literally cook yourself to death,” I said, leaning against the chair next to him, “yeah, probably.” I went quiet another second. “I brought you water.”

He tilted his gaze up, and I knew then he could see me. I wasn’t sure how much, but I was suddenly, extremely self-conscious.

Which was ridiculous, of course. A- I knew I was pretty as fuck. And B- I didn’t care if he thought I was pretty. I didn’t want him to think of me in any type of way…

…did I?

Clearing my throat, I leaned forward and touched the back of his hand with the bottle. He jumped, but he turned his palm and grabbed it, twisting off the cap and taking down half before sitting back and swiping his hand over his mouth.

In that moment, he was very much a hockey player. The only thing missing was him pouring it into his mouth and then spitting it at his feet.

“Better?”