Jordan grabbed both Abby’s hands and placed them by her side, before bringing her face level with Abby’s. “Listen to me. I’m really going to clean you up now. I need you to stop touching me so I can do that, okay? People are not far away, and I’ve got a job to do today.”

Abby nodded, a smile spreading across her face as she lifted both hands in the air, palms out. “I promise no more touching. Not allowed. Even though you’re so pretty. And your hair.” She raised a hand to it again.

“Abby!” Jordan was almost shouting.

Abby sat up straighter, putting one hand by her side, the other giving Jordan a swift salute. “Yes, sir!”

Jordan shook her head, suppressing a smile. She wet the towel again and this time, she didn’t mess around. She mopped Abby up as best she could. All the while Abby looked at her like she was hanging the moon. Another time, another place, Jordan might have entertained it. But not here, in this bathroom.

“So strict,” Abby said.

Jordan ignored her, running her gaze over her front. No, she wasn’t going to focus on her breasts.

But Abby obviously had other ideas, as she placed a hand on Jordan’s left cheek. “I wonder if you’d be so strict in bed? But I guess I’m never going to know because that would make me a bad person.” She gazed into Jordan’s eyes.

This time, Jordan let her.

“I’m not a bad person, Jordan.”

Jordan’s heart boomed. “I know,” she replied.

“I just want to kiss you. Is that so bad?” Abby tilted her head, her eyes sad, her lips inviting.

Jordan’s body flushed with want.

She stepped back and held out a hand to Abby, who took it, staring at their connection.

Jordan wasn’t going to let her dwell. She pulled Abby up.

“Come on. Let’s get you back on your wine stool before they send out a search party.”

Chapter 20

Abby woke with a start and squeezed her eyes tight shut. Dammit, her head hurt. She put her palm to her forehead, and pressed down, as if that would make it feel better.

It didn’t. Abby let out a sigh and grabbed her phone from where she’d abandoned it on the covers beside her. It was 2.30am. She’d drunk far too much yesterday. Day drinking was never a good idea. You could dress it up as a wine tour, a cultural activity, but it was still what it was. An excuse to get a little tipsy. Not that she’d been complaining at the time. It was just now, hours later when she’d woken up gagging for water, that she was questioning her choices.

She rolled off the bed, wobbled, then grabbed a T-shirt and denim shorts. Her wine-stained T-shirt was draped across a chair.