Alan asked for the eleventh time. Pamela jerked her head toward him, then lowered her ninety-nine-cent white sunglasses. “No.” “You look cold.” “Then stop looking.” She leaned her head back against the plastic chaise lounge that suspended her several inches above the wet, white sand of the beach. “And stop talking.” After spending the day shopping with him yesterday and sharing an awkward dinner last night, she was ready to scream. They’d been at each other’s throats all evening, culminating in an argument over finding someplace else to stay because he refused to sleep on the broken foldout bed. In the end, she had won separate sleeping arrangements, but he had complained about his back all morning. Although quiet at the moment, he was driving her bananas, hiding behind those mirrored designer-prescription shades, reminding her every few seconds that she lay nearly naked within touching distance, yet he had no intention of doing so. Which was a good thing, she fumed, because she’d cuff his chiseled jaw if he laid a hand on her.
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