“Why don’t we get out of the sun?” Jean suggested.

They wandered back past the van, climbed the rickety stairs to Holman’s shaded porch and sat down. They rested the two extra beers on the wood between them. Jean crossed her legs. She rubbed her bare thighs with the base of her bottle. The wetness left slicks on her skin. She lifted the bottle to her face and slid it over her cheeks and forehead.

Larry imagined Jean opening her blouse, rolling the chilled, dripping bottle against her bare breasts. She wasn’t the kind of woman who would ever do that, though. Hell, she wouldn’t even step out of the house unless she had a bra on.

Too bad life can’t be more like fiction, he told himself, and drank some more beer. A gal in one of his books would have that wet bottle sliding over her chest in about two shakes. Then, of course, the guy would get in on the action.

That’d be a scene worth writing.

You’ll never get a chance to liveit, not in this lifetime, but...

“Larry, I’m starting to get worried.”

“They’ll be along.”

“Something must be wrong.”

“Maybe she has a problem.”

“Like the trots?”

“Who knows?”

“They’d be back by now if somethinghadn’t happened,” Jean said.

“Maybe Pete got lucky.”

“They wouldn’t do that.”

“Obviously they did it back at that old ruin we passed.”

“Sounded like it. But they were alone. They wouldn’t do that here with us waiting.”

“If you’re so sure, why don’t we go around back and look for them?”

“Go right on ahead.” She gave him an annoyed glance.

“Nah.” He put a hand on her back. Her blouse was damp. He untucked it and slipped his hand beneath it. She sat up straight, and sighed as he caressed her.

When he fingered the catches of her bra, she said, “Don’t get carried away. They could show up any second.”

“On the other hand, maybe they won’t show up at all.”