The lights flicked on inside.
I froze.
The porch lights burst to life, illuminating me in full criminal glory just as John turned the key in the door and looked up.
He stared at me.
I stared at him.
Startled, I stepped back. Which… was a mistake.?
Splash.
Chapter Twenty-One
The man has taste. Goddammit.
John Kater really, really hates tattoos.
Rat encounters can give you PTSD.
I wish I could tell you I was an elegant swimmer. That I slid into the water like a mermaid, that I kept my cool, that John simply blinked and assumed he imagined me and went on with his business.
But...no.
Instead, the tall figure—98% smugness, 2% great bone structure—stood on the dock, hands in his pockets, while my teeth clattered so violently I thought I’d chip a molar.
“You need a hand?” he asked calmly, extending one toward me.
“Noooo…thankkkk…you,” I managed, arms flailing in an attempt to keep my limbs from cramping into rigor mortis.
“Nora,” he said, brow cocked with irritating patience, “your lips are turning blue.”
“It’s a…fashion…ch-choice,” I chattered. I couldn’t feel my legs anymore. I needed to get out of the water ASAP—but I was still clinging to my last bit of pride.
“You often swim fully clothed in the middle of the night?”
“Yes…you ssshould try it. It’s…refressshing.”
“Okay, then,” John said, turning toward his door.
Something brushed against my leg.
I let out a strangled gurgle and told pride to go to hell. “F-fine! But just because you p-robably have radioactive rats in your f-front yard!”
He clasped my arms and hauled me out of the lake like I weighed nothing.
“Let’s get you inside,” he said with maddening calm, pulling me into the warmth of the houseboat.
He closed the backdoor and then crouched before me.
“What are you d-doing?”
He didn’t answer but placed one of his warm, large hands onto the back of my leg. Then lifted my foot.
I had little choice but to steady myself on his broad shoulders.
Surprisingly gently, he tugged off one boot, then the other. Then came the socks. He seemed particularly careful not to touch my skin. I mean, fair. I was most likely contaminated with Bowie knows what.
