Looking at the deck below, I skim the row of lounge chairs absentmindedly and then land on a supreme eight-pack, with long masculine legs. I freeze and do a literal double-take at the toned body, with muscles that point towards his navy blue swim trunks, the guy’s face blocked from view thanks to the bar. My hormones do not care about my sanity. I squeeze my thighs together, hot from more than just the sun. Oh my God. I know every ridge of Loren Hale’s body, and this is not him. I burn with guilt. I would never cheat on him, I remind myself. I need a cold dip in the pool. Stat. “His body is
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BRO. IS IT CONNOR.
