She yelps, then starts laughing at me, and I'm grinning big by the time I toss her on the bed. She immediately rolls to the side and starts to scramble off, but I jump on her, easily grabbing her wrists and forcing her on her back. I straddle her at her waist and then pull her arms down, pinning them under my shins.
Andrea struggles, her face red from laughing and the effort to get away from me, so I decide to really make her suffer. Fingers to her ribs, I start tickling her.
A piercing shriek comes out of her mouth, and she bucks up hard against me, laughing hysterically. "Don't, Wyatt. I can't stand to be tickled."
"Should have thought about that before you committed us to going out tonight," I growl at her and double up my efforts on her ribs.
"Stop," she yells while gasping for breath and trying to wriggle away. "I'm going to pee."
Laughing, I slow my fingers and then lift my legs up to free her arms. Sitting back on my haunches, I look down at her. "Okay, that's a level of kink I'm not into."
She giggles and takes a few deep breaths. We grin at each other a moment, but then her eyes turn a bit serious.
Reaching one hand out, she grasps the elastic waistband of my pajama bottoms between her forefinger and thumb, pulling it away from my skin. Releasing it just as quickly, it snaps back.
Raising her eyes to mine, she asks, "So … you were kind of stuck on me, huh? Thinking about coming to visit me?"
My face flushes, but I don't look away. Staring down at her, I reach out and take the edges of my shirt she's wearing and peel it back, exposing her breasts.
"Just a little," I tell her quietly, dropping my gaze to her chest. I place my palms over the swells and rub my thumbs in circles over her nipples. Her breath catches, and she arches her back.
"Do you think you would have ever come to see me in Pittsburgh?" she asks.
My eyes rise back up to hers. I consider her question, and I'm not sure if my answer is based on what I'm feeling here and now, or what I was feeling then, but it's completely honest when I say, "Yeah … I would have."
"I'm glad," she says with a soft look.
"Me too," I tell her. "Same page and all."
"Same page," she agrees, but I do have to wonder what page we'll be on when it's time for her to return home.
Chapter 18
Andrea
Wyatt turns off the ignition to his Suburban, and I stare through the window at Last Call. It's a one-story, moderately sized building with gray siding that sits oceanside on the Atlantic. From our angle, I can see a large deck on the back strung with white lights and loaded with people. A large, wooden sign that says, "Last Call" hangs over the tinted-glass door at the front. Based on the amount of cars in the parking lot, I'd say this place does quite well for itself.
We both exit his vehicle, and Wyatt meets me at the front where he takes my hand. He's wearing a pair of dark jeans, a gray V-necked t-shirt that's semi-tucked into his pants, which is paired with a brown, leather belt. As I've discovered most people on the beach wear flip-flops, I'm not surprised that's what Wyatt decided to wear on his feet.
I myself chose to wear a maxi-dress with a lime-green, white-and-black geometric design that was cut low in front and even lower in the back. It was tied halter-style around my neck and although you couldn't see them because the dress was so long, the cutest pair of white, gladiator-style sandals.
"So, let me make sure I have this all straight," I say conversationally as we walk toward the building, our clasped hands swinging in between us.
"Hunter is your best friend. He owns this place and is a retired, pro surfer. Gabby is his fiancée and a building contractor."
"Right," he confirms.
"Brody is Hunter's identical twin. You're friends with him as well, but not best. He spent time in prison for a crime he didn't commit and his wife, Alyssa, is an heiress. Both of them work at The Haven, which is a non-profit, no-kill animal shelter that Alyssa started, and they have a little baby boy named Trey. "
I have to admit … Brody's story fascinates me. In the field of law enforcement, you just accept that if someone was convicted, they were guilty. Brody sadly took the fall for someone else in a drunk driving accident that killed a person, and I would assume he must have tremendous depth of character to do something like that.
"Excellent," he praises me. "You were really listening to me earlier, weren't you?"
I tap a finger on my free hand against my temple. "Mind like a steel trap."