“Perfect.” “Told you,” Mick called from the float. “Even Miss Narrow Comfort Zone can’t complain.” She flicked water so it spattered across his suntanned chest. Mick was lucky. Unlike her, he never had to worry about burning. He was always browned up from skiing the Rockies or snorkeling in Cozumel. He worked hard. He played harder. Now he pointed at two lounge chairs in the dappled shade of a palm. On one, the new Jack Reacher novel; on the other, the latest National Enquirer. He knew her so well. She dropped her bag on her chair and unfastened the towel she’d cinched around her. But before she could drop it, stage fright struck. She’d never shown this much skin. This much white skin. Whiter than snow. Some of it hadn’t seen the sun in all of her thirty years. Maybe the bikini was a bad idea. She’d picked it up at Macy’s along with some bright tops, short shorts, and a few skimpy sundresses. Everything was young and colorful, and like nothing she’d ever worn before.
