He steps forward. “Where are you heading?”
I jerk a thumb behind my back. “Anywhere away from you.”
He glances at the debris-strewn path where hotel gardeners are already sweeping away palm husks. “Be careful. The tiles are slick.”
His concern feels like salt in an open wound, and I’ve had that before—it hurts. I pick up speed, trying to get away from him. Fury roars louder than his warning.
I’m so tangled in my own rage I don’t see the loose tile ahead, and the front of my flip-flop catches it. My arms start flailing, and time slows. I tip forward, trying to catch my balance but failing. I open my mouth from shock and instantly get a gush of water.
I hit the pool hard and slide under, panic flaring as chemically clean water surges up my nose and fills my mouth, choking out every other sensation. It takes half a second to orient and kick up, but heavy, tangled fabric drags at my legs.
My stupid rebellious dress balloons and wraps around my thighs, and I barely thrash to the surface before my head bounces off the edge of the pool. The world goes from sharp to blurry in a blink, water slopping over my face and eyes. And then suddenly two iron hands clamp around my waist and yank me up so fast my teeth clack together.
I cough up what feels like a gallon of salt and chlorine and half gurgle, half gasp for air while my elbow jams into something solid—Noah’s chest, I realize—just as his grip tightens, spinning me upright in the water.
My sundress, now basically see-through, suctions to every inch of skin, and my hair is plastered down my cheeks and collarbone. I’m still coughing so hard my spine shakes, making it even more impossible to breathe. My knees pinball off the pool wall as Noah pulls me out of the deep end, until we’re both staggering in the waist-high waters.
Noah’s shirt, regular white cotton before, is utterly transparent now, the fabric painted to his chest in a way that should be illegal. Dark hair, dark eyes, all of it somehow darker. His face looms inches from my own, and I realize that his stuck-together, wet lashes make his eyes appear even deeper.
We’re practically nose-to-nose with his hand splayed wide on my back and my own clutching hard at his shoulder. The veins in his forearms stand out, and I realize my nails are digging little moons into his bicep.
I try to say something, but all that comes out is a cough, then a choking laugh. “Great save, lifeguard,” I croak, and my voice sounds like broken glass.
Noah stays right there, not even pretending he’s about to let go. He looks down, registers my utterly see-through attire, and then—surprise—doesn’t leer or make a joke. Just blinks, lips parting like he might say something but can’t. His jaw works for a second, an already familiar muscle in his jaw starts ticking.
The only thing more embarrassing than the situation itself is watching him being more mature about it than me.
“Thanks,” I say, but it’s more hiss than word, because being this close to him is doing something weird to my insides. I’m breathless, but not just from near-drowning. Everything feels too tight, and my skin is hyperaware of every single inch of him pressed against me.
Noah’s hand slides, just a little, as if making sure I’m actually in one piece. He steadies me by the ribs, our chests are still almost touching, and I suddenly realize if I lean forward even half an inch, I can kiss him.
“You okay?” Noah asks, his voice lower than before.
I nod, suddenly aware of how his hand still rests lightly on my body.
I should move away. But I don’t.
The chlorine stings my eyes, but I can’t blame that for the itchiness behind them or the pooling tears.
“You should have said something to my parents,” I whisper, the words slipping out before I can stop them. The real reason for today’s mood is revealing itself. “I thought you would.”
His jaw tightens. “It wasn’t my place.”
“But last night?—”
“Was a mistake,” he cuts in, but his eyes drop to my lips, contradicting everything.
I push away into deeper waters, creating distance between us. “Right. I’m Ezra’s problem, not yours.”
Something flashes across his face. Frustration, maybe regret. Or maybe he is just constipated. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?” I challenge, treading water, keeping myself just beyond his reach. “I don’t get you. What do you want from me?”
“And what do you want from me?” he snarls, moving closer to me and grabbing my arm. “You want me to fight your battles, princess?” His eyes blaze fury as he leans closer, and his body touches mine. “Or do you just want me to fuck you and be done with it?”
The air between us electrifies instantly, like when you see a dark, looming cloud, and you know its thunder will rattle the earth. I’m suddenly aware of everywhere our bodies touch—my chest against his, his fingers digging into my arms—as our ragged breathing syncs in some cruel rhythm. I try to pull away, but the water’s resistance only slides us together in new places.
“You’re an asshole, Noah King,” I try saying firmly, but my voice betrays me with a slight tremor. My whole body is working against me.
