“I love it,” Candy said. They all looked over Sara’s shoulder at the screen, where she clicked into a spreadsheet listing events, potential points and points earned.
“You’re serious about this,” Matt said, trying not to bury his nose in Candy’s hair.
“Oh, Sara’s serious about everything,” Ellie said.
“You all will enjoy this when we win, so no bitching,” Sara said. “Assuming we do well enough to make the finals, we’ll need a killer essay.”
“And Candy’s our ace in the hole on that,” Ellie said. “Isn’t Candy amazing, Matt?” Ellie dug in with her gaze. “Do you know how lucky you are to have her?” She paused. “At SyncUp, I mean.”
“I do. Yes.” He glanced at her.
“I’m just part of the team,” Candy said, flushing. Her vulnerability touched him. For someone so socially confident, she was surprisingly insecure about her work. He wanted to help her with that if he could, without getting too personal.
“What about the freak-dancing contest?” Ellie asked, pointing at the screen. “Matt, what do you think?”
“No way.” He stepped back, hands up in protest.
“Come on. What did Candy call you? Fun Guy? Fun Guy would love it. I mean, you’re doing the limbo? I wouldn’t have believed anyone could talk you into that.” She gave Candy a knowing look.
“I have to draw the line somewhere,” he said, but Ellie had a point. Only Candy could have convinced him to sing karaoke, get contacts, do backbends in swim trunks-and whatever other goofy thing she had yet to talk him into.
Candy went off to change, leaving him with Ellie and Sara, who lapsed into a discussion of Ellie’s new look, talking about bronzers and foundations and primer coats until he felt like they were debating building construction instead of cosmetics.
“What do you think, Matt? Should I keep up this illusion, this pretense, this false me?” Ellie asked him.
“You’re asking a guy who just had a makeover,” he said, then got serious. “You have to be comfortable with yourself, El. You have to like how you-”
Candy appeared, stopping him cold. She wore a white bikini held together by loose strings here and there.
“Yeah, Matt?” Ellie prompted. “I have to like how I…what?”
“How you look,” he finished faintly, unable to take his eyes off Candy, who looked like an edible angel. A couple of tugs with his teeth and she’d be bare.
“Wow,” he said, his voice a rasp over a suddenly dry throat. “That looks, um, like it has more give.” He frowned, as if that were a serious consideration.
“More give?” Ellie asked.
“For better bending,” Candy said.
Bending? God. “We’d better get moving,” he said, hustling her toward the door before they endured more harassment.
“Have fun, you two,” Ellie said. “How low can you go?”
He didn’t want to think about it.
9
THE FESTIVAL AREA had gotten insanely crowded, Matt noted, with the fleeting hope that the limbo contest had reached capacity. Candy was indomitable, however, and managed to work her way to the sign-up just before they closed it off.
Hooray.
The limbo uprights were tiki torches painted to resemble bamboo, with bar rests that could be set as low as six inches from the ground. Who could possibly bend that low? Maybe Candy who was as limber as she was graceful.
Matt sighed and lined up with Candy and the other contestants. He kept catching guys checking her out. It was annoying, but he understood. Candy drew the eye. She had a great shape, of course, which the white bikini emphasized, and her dark hair gleamed in the torchlight, but there was more to it. She gave off electricity; she stood out.
He kept picturing her naked. Other guys were doing the same thing, but only he knew exactly what she looked like.
Stop.
Luckily, “Limbo Rock” blared from nearby speakers, signaling the start of the contest. The bar was high enough that most people, including him, moved easily under it. Candy went before him, lightning quick. He managed the next round, but not without effort. Several guys dropped to the sand.
The third round, he watched Candy pass under the bar, following the swell of her thigh muscles to the place where her legs met, the spot he’d touched, the space he’d entered.
Ouch. He was about to stack wood in public.
“How low can you go?” the announcer said.
That low, evidently. He couldn’t stop thinking about her. She confused and overwhelmed him. He preferred his feelings to be simple and rational.
The way they’d been with Jane. She didn’t slip constantly into his awareness, invade every thought, torture every nerve. With Jane, he knew what to expect. Candy would be impossible to predict. Or ignore.
“Matt? Hello?” Candy was calling him. “Your turn?”
“Oh, right. Yeah.” He bent back, inched under the bar, caught sight of Candy’s face and lost all strength in his legs. He hit the sand, kicking up dust.
“You had it. What happened to you?” she said, giving him a hand up.
You. You happened to me. “I don’t know,” he said.
He felt a little better about blowing it when most of the men and half the women were eliminated that round. Before long, Candy was among the dozen contenders left.
Then it got hard. The contestants had to go under the bar backward. It looked like agony. Player after player tumbled to the sand.
When it was Candy’s turn, she inched toward the bar, her features pinched in concentration, hair swinging, her muscles tight, thighs quivering from the strain. She made that round and the next, too, her determination as palpable as the sweat that gleamed on her skin. As with the karaoke contest, the crowd loved her.
In the end she managed third place, beaten by two contortionists who defied gravity.
“You were amazing,” he said, giving her a quick hug. “Let’s go.”
“Not so fast. There’s a couples-only contest. With belly shots.”
“Belly shots?” he said, his heart sinking.
She pointed at the demonstration, where a woman bent back while her partner placed a shot of tequila on her belly. She moved under the bar, he met her on the other side, picked up the shot glass with his teeth and drank it, no hands.
“We’re winning it,” Candy said, leveling her gaze at him. “So no backing out.”
“I wouldn’t think of it,” he said, happy they were the last couple in the line for this particular torture. One after another the pairs tried and failed-tipping over the shot glass, bumping the bar or falling flat.
Then it was their turn.
“We’re going to make it, Matt. Don’t worry,” she said.
“Oh, I’m not,” he said, setting the shot glass on her trembling stomach before hurrying around to wait for her to inch her way under the bar toward him.
Her muscles clenched and released as she moved, glistening in the tiki light. The glass jiggled and a few drops of tequila trickled across her stomach. The audience moaned.
Her toes gripped the sand, her body vibrated from the strain, then she steadied herself.
Somehow, inch by inch, she made it beyond the bar. Now he did his part. He lowered his mouth to the shaking shot glass, picking up the scent of her skin, her light sweat and the tang of tequila. He lifted the edge with his teeth, tipped back the ounce of booze and gulped it down.
A cheer went up. Candy bounced up and he caught her against him. “We won! We won!” she shrieked, dancing and jumping like the tiki flames. The announcer handed Candy the trophy, and she held it up, her eyes shining with joy.
Matt wanted to help her celebrate, so he crouched before her and tapped his shoulders. “Climb up.”
She put her legs around his neck, her thighs tight against his ears. He held her securely and stood tall.
She shrieked in pleasure. The crowd bellowed its approval. Alcohol-induced hilarity, no doubt. They’d hardly won the Olympics, but Candy was a wonder and even the drunken festival revelers had picked up on it.