Total pages in book: 23
Estimated words: 21917 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 110(@200wpm)___ 88(@250wpm)___ 73(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 21917 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 110(@200wpm)___ 88(@250wpm)___ 73(@300wpm)
Colt’s jaw tightens. “No, she can explore on her own. I have a bike to finish.”
“Colt—” Jim starts, but he’s already heading outside. He pauses at the door, briefly looking back at me.
“Don’t go into the garage. It’s not a place for kids.”
Kids!? The word hits me like a slap. I’m eighteen years old. I just graduated two months ago. I am not a child, and from the way his eyes traced over my body earlier, he knows that.
“I’m eighteen, Colt,” I say, finding my trembling voice.
Something flashes in his eyes—amusement? Interest? “Could have fooled me.”
And with that, he’s gone, the door slamming shut behind him, locking me inside like a bank vault.
Mom and Jim exchange glances, and I hear Jim murmur something about ‘adjusting’ and ‘needing time.’ They waltz into the kitchen, leaving me standing alone in the unfamiliar space that’s meant to be my home for the summer.
I escape upstairs and find my room easily. It’s simple but beautiful—a queen bed with a navy comforter, furniture that matches the cabin, and a window seat that overlooks the lake. My suitcase sits at the foot of the bed, and I notice small touches that seem deliberate: fresh wildflowers in a Mason jar, new curtains that match the bedding, and a bookshelf stocked with classic books.
Did he do this? For me?
The sound of an engine roars to life outside, and I go to the window. Colt is back working on his motorcycle, straddling it now, revving the engine with practiced competence. The way he sits, the control he exhibits among the casual danger of it all—it goes right through me. My body reacts instantly, causing me to press my tingling thighs together.
No. No this cannot be happening. He’s my stepbrother!
Without lights everywhere, night falls faster here than in the city. By the time we sit down for dinner, the world outside is a velvety purple-black, punctuated only by the moon’s silvery reflection on the lake.
Colt’s changed into jeans and a black Henley that does nothing to hide his muscles underneath—muscles I should not be noticing like I am. He sits across from me but never once lets our eyes meet for more than a second.
Mom and Jim carry the conversation, still lost in each other despite the presence of their kids. They touch constantly—his hand on hers, her fingers on his thigh, casual intimacies that make the house feel smaller and suffocating.
“So, Lily,” Jim says in an attempt to include me, “Colt’s going to be here all summer. Maybe he can teach you to row, or—”
“I can row,” I say at the exact same time that Colt says, “I’m busy.”
A silence drops over the table.
“Well, then!” Mom laughs, trying to salvage the moment. “I’m sure you two will find something to do together.”
Colt finally levels his gaze at me, and the look in his eyes is so intense, so filled with something I can’t name, that I have to look away. My cheeks burn, and I excuse myself early, claiming to be exhausted by the drive.
I pace around my room, restless energy coursing through me, my thighs tickling and my body on fire. It’s just too quiet out here—too still. I’m hyperaware of every little sound, every little creak that might be Colt’s footsteps across the hall.
I change into my sleep shorts and a tank top, trying to ignore how hypersensitive the mountain air has made my skin. Every single brush of fabric is a reminder of my body’s betrayal.
Unable to stand it any longer, I creep to the window and peer out. The moon is full, turning the lake into liquid silver. And there, pumping through the water with his enormous arms, is Colt.
He swims with controlled, purposeful power—just like everything he does. I watch as he reaches the other side then turns and swims back. When he reaches the dock, he pulls himself up in a single fluid motion. Water streams down his body, taking my breath away.
His chest is massive, and his abs are shredded. His arms look like a boxer’s, and he even has those V-lines leading down into the tiny pair of swim trunks he’s wearing—so small they might as well not even be there. His legs are massive, and as he turns to grab his towel, I see his butt, sculpted like a statue by Michelangelo.
He stands there for a moment, head tilted back to the sky, drawing deep breaths. And then, as if he can feel my gaze, he looks straight up at my window.
Directly at me.
We stare at each other across the distance, and even from here, I can see his chest rising and falling, the tension in his shoulders, and the way his forearms flex as he wrings the moisture from his towel.
My heart is racing in my chest. I’m talking heart attack level.