Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
“Just because no one is here doesn’t make it haunted. It’s nine in the morning.”
Annabelle is already removing her shoes. Tosses them to higher ground. Pulls off her T-shirt to reveal the sports bra underneath. Wades into the water.
“You coming?” She is almost waist deep, arms hanging at her sides as she smiles over at me—unaware of the way the sun kisses her bare shoulders—and I’m toast.
“I don’t have swim trunks.”
She spins in a little circle, water rippling around her. “So?”
I arch a brow. “What happens when they get soaked and leave absolutely nothing to the imagination?”
Annabelle doesn’t miss a beat. “Then you’ll finally contribute something valuable to this trip.”
I blink.
She winks.
“Jesus,” I say. “I don’t even know how to respond to that.”
She shrugs, grinning. “You’re welcome?”
This girl. She’s relentless.
“Now get your ass in the water.”
Chapter 13
Annabelle
His feet hit the water with a splash, followed by a very manly hiss. He freezes like the lake just threatened his masculinity.
“Why is this water colder than I expected? It feels like the Polar Plunge,” he says through clenched teeth, inching forward like he’s wading into lava.
What a wuss. The water is cool, but what does he expect, given that it’s fall?
“Summer is over, you poor baby,” I call out, smirking. I wander a little closer to the shoreline, one hand perched sassily on my hip. “Do you need a sweater?”
Sarcasm is my defense mechanism. Like, aggressively so. I should probably knock it off, but my nerves are doing a dance in my stomach, and I don’t know what else to do with my hands except flap them. It’s almost as if I don’t know how to be serious in moments like this—when I’m teetering on the edge of what feels intimate.
I shouldn’t be nervous. We’re just two people hanging out. Talking. Doing lake stuff!
Also: He looks good all flustered.
Like—good enough to eat.
He wades deeper, until the water kisses his waist, his jaw tightening with every step. I watch shamelessly. What? The man is built like an outdoorsy Greek god; my very own lumberjack with his broad shoulders and thick hair.
And yes, he’s 90 percent emotionally constipated. But—
He turns his head, catching me flat out ogling. Crap.
“You taking notes over there?” he asks, brow raised, smirk fully activated. “Because you’re staring real hard.”
Hard. Ha!
I blush at being caught staring. Busted! “Nope. Just calculating how fast hypothermia sets in. You know—for science.”
His laugh is low and delicious, and my stomach goes wheeeee!
We both wade in farther, the water surprisingly clear. The sun warms my shoulders, but everything else is chilly, bracing, like the lake is daring us to be brave enough to stay.
And then he says it.
“About last night . . .”
Oh no. I freeze. I am not ready to face the obvious: I have a mad crush on my roommate.
“What about it?” I ask carefully, trying to keep my voice light.
He shrugs, his tone casual, but I don’t miss the tension in his shoulders. “I don’t want it to be weird between us.”
Nope, nope, nope. Don’t wanna talk about it.
“So,” I say, needing to change the subject before I combust. “What exactly are the rules here? Do we do the whole ‘let’s never speak of this again’ thing? Or are we going for a postgame analysis?”
Maverick grins over at me, wading deeper into the water. “I remember your thighs shaking around my face,” he informs me. “That’s stuck in my head.”
My breath catches. He looks as if he’s thinking about walking over and kissing me.
And I wouldn’t stop him.
For someone who prides herself on being chill, you’d think I would be more immune to men with forearms that look carved from marble—and a smile that does dangerous things to my bloodstream. That is a problem.
His grin deepens. “Sure you don’t want to keep talking about it?”
“Nope.” I shake my head emphatically. “What is there to discuss? We were two consenting adults, alone in a cabin, forced into sharing a bed and poor decisions.”
“Speak for yourself,” he says. “I made excellent decisions.”
I open my mouth to deliver some appropriately flirty comeback, but I don’t get the chance—because in the next second, he squeals. A full-body, undignified, borderline-girlish scream.
“Oh my God, something touched me!” he shouts, eyes wide in pure panic. “It brushed against my leg!”
Maverick absolutely loses his shit.
He launches backward in the water as if he’s been harpooned, arms flailing, flapping uncontrollably like he’s single-handedly trying to drain the lake. His voice hits an octave I didn’t even know existed in the male registry—a shriek so dramatic it startles the birds roosting in a nearby tree.
“Help! It’s Got Me,” he shrieks, now thrashing like a cartoon villain caught in a bear trap. “I’m Being Pulled Under!”
I can barely catch my breath. “You are in barely three feet of water.”
His hands slap at the surface, knees flying comically high as he flees whatever ghost fish he thinks touched him below the surface.