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After setting my dress on the ground, one hand glides through his long, rusty-brown hair. “I mean, yes, of course I have. But not… Never mind.”
“Oh-kay, weirdo.”
Logan’s never avoided looking at me before, and now it feeds a round of ugly thoughts about my figure. Maybe he likes women whose hips aren’t as wide set as mine are?
He grabs my hand and pulls me toward the swing.
“Wait, you’re not going in with your shirt on, are you?”
He stops, staring down as if it hadn’t occurred to him that he was still wearing it. “Yeah, I-I don’t like my body.”
I tilt my head as he continues dragging me behind him. “Oh, please. You’ve done nothing but work all summer long. There’s no way you’ve got less than an eight-pack under there.”
Unthinking, I reach for the hem of his shirt and give it a playful tug.
He stops so fast I collide into his back. My hearing fades with the forceful beat of my heart, and my eyes go wide at the iron grip he suddenly has on my wrist.
His nostrils flare, and down to my very core, I’m sick with fear. Not for me, but for whatever’s caused the pain and unfiltered anguish tugging his face into a scowl.
I lower my voice, coaxing him like I would a battered animal. “I didn’t mean to upset you… I was playing, and I’m sorry. That wasn’t funny.”
He blinks, gradually coming back from wherever his mind took him.
“No. I’m sorry,” he murmurs, gently smoothing my skin where he grabbed me. “I just don’t want to take my shirt off, if that’s okay with you.”
A thick knot forms in my throat. Of course it’s okay with me, I want to say. But I swipe my dress off the ground and pull it overhead instead. “Eight packs are overrated.”
His brilliant blue eyes soften, and I’m struck by how handsome that timid smile is. Come to think of it, there are a lot of things about my friend that have captured my attention recently.
Like how he never minds when I smack his arm whenever I get excited about something, or that deep belly laugh that shakes his big shoulders. Or the bossy way he grabs my hand, leading me where he wants us to go, exactly as he’s doing now.
My hair is an untamed, curly mess, tickling my cheeks as we approach the swing. The sun steadily heats my skin all the way down to my bones, and I stare at our threaded hands as a similar sensation builds between them.
He releases me, placing one strong and steady hand on my lower back while the other secures the rope. I tighten my grip as I hook my foot on the bottom of the tire.
“Whoever loses is on double horse shit scooping duty tomorrow,” I say, rocking the swing back and forth to build momentum.
He steps back, folding his arms over his chest with a cocky smirk. “You’re on.”
Giving one last hard swing, I launch myself over the water with a squeal that echoes through the trees. I soar through the air, arms thrown up above my head, and crash through a pool of crisp, cool water.
It gobbles me up with a thousand little bubbles, tangling my dress around my limbs, and as soon as my feet hit the mossy bottom, I propel back toward the surface and smooth my wet hair back.
“Not bad, but I can do better,” Logan hollers from the shore, already swinging high.
I tread water, blinking it from my lashes while I watch him swing.
We’re just friends, I remind myself.
But his arms and legs are corded with muscles that bunch with each movement, beckoning an unmistakable tendril of attraction in my belly.
“Whoo!” he shouts before releasing the swing.
Feet first, he crashes through the water a whole foot past where I initially landed.
“Dammit.” I slap the water’s surface. “You only won ‘cause you’re twice my size.”
A pair of hands clamp onto my thighs, and I release another squeal.
