Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 88460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
“Don’t you freaking dare. I will kill you.” I’ve been threatening him all weekend. Another thing I’ve learned about him (that I basically already knew)? Harris loves making bets—and making things interesting.
It’s cute.
Until it’s not.
He grins at me, pearly white teeth and mischief, and then—he disappears. Full-on submarine mode.
I freeze. The donut bobbles beneath me, and I tighten my grip, heart racing. “Harris?”
Silence.
The water ripples ominously.
“This isn’t funny!” I warn him, squinting over the side of the pink sprinkled tube, peering into the crystal water below me; unfortunately he is nowhere to be seen.
“Oh no,” I whisper. “I swear to God . . .”
The tube shifts. I squeal.
When his hand brushes my ankle, I shriek overdramatically, flailing as if my life depends on it, desperate to get away from his grasp.
I Refuse to go under!
He surfaces a few feet away, splashing water at me. “You’re jumpy.”
I glare, pushing soggy strands of hair off my face. “You are so annoying!”
He circles me slowly in the water like a shark, predator-style, shoulders bobbing above the surface. “You look nervous, babe.”
Because I am. “Will you leave me alone if I take my top off?” I offer.
He tilts his head, considering it. “No. ’Cause then I’ll want my hands on you more.”
He goes under again.
I yelp. He wouldn’t dare! “Harris! No!”
The water goes still. I whip my head side to side, searching.
Suddenly, my donut lifts—flips—sending me into the water with a melodramatic splash. I flail as if I cannot swim . . . find my footing, and push off the bottom.
When I resurface, I’m sputtering. The dipshit is laughing so hard he’s coughing.
“Dead. You are so dead.” I launch myself at him, but of course he catches me easily, both of us laughing and breathless.
This has been the best day.
He brushes water off my face. “I couldn’t resist.”
“I’m going to drown you,” I promise, kissing him on the nose. He has freckles in the sun, and I touch one with the tip of my fingers as he cradles me in his arms, walking laps in the shallow end.
Holding me.
It really has been the best few days; neither of us is as itchy as we were when he left Star Lake, and better news? Chlorine from his pool helps take away the itch. Who knew?
I rest my head on his shoulder as he keeps pacing slow laps in the shallow end, his arms strong and steady around me. He’s holding me like I weigh nothing, his fingers trailing lazily up and down my back.
I trace a freckle with my fingertip. “You have freckles.”
He smiles softly. “I get them in the summer. You like?”
“Love.”
“You love my freckles?” he asks gently, curiosity also lacing his words—like he’s hoping I’ll say more.
I swallow, heart hammering. “I love everything about you.”
His arms tighten around me. “Lucy.”
“Hmm?”
“You love my freckles?”
I roll my eyes but can’t help laughing. “I just said that.”
He arches a brow. “That’s not the same thing as saying you love me.”
I blink at him, feeling my heart do a ridiculous little flip. “Harris . . .”
He waits. I bite my lip, nerves suddenly clogging my throat. I want to say it. I really, really do. But he stares me down, smug as ever, as if he’s going to make me squirm for it.
I narrow my eyes. “You’re trying to make me say it first.”
He shrugs, clearly unbothered. “I like winning.”
I open my mouth—then shut it.
He leans in, brushing his nose against mine. “C’mon. Admit it.”
I stay stubbornly silent. Because it has only been two weeks since we’ve met. People can’t possibly fall in love in that short amount of time.
Can they? It’s not possible. Is it?
I look at him—really look at him. His wet hair sticking up like a rooster, those ridiculous freckles dusting his nose and shoulders, the way his mouth twitches at the corners like he’s fighting back another joke.
God help me. I’m completely, stupidly, head over heels in love with this man.
My brain tries to talk me out of it—rattling off logical arguments like some overly cautious life coach in my head. Too soon. Too crazy. Too unrealistic.
But my heart is standing there with a giant foam finger, screaming “Too Late, Loser.”
Harris nudges my cheek with his. “I can see it, you know.”
I blink. “See what?”
“That you love me.” His grin softens into something vulnerable. “You’re trying to logic your way out of it, and it’s adorable.”
I open my mouth to protest, but he cuts me off.
“It’s okay,” he says happily. “I wasn’t expecting it either. But here we are. Floating in my pool, still covered in poison ivy, with a bruised rib from your trellis—and I’ve never been more happy.”
I exhale, laughing and sniffling at the same time. “Why are you like this?”
“Like what?” He blinks at me innocently.
“So . . . infuriating.” UGH!