I stare at her, eyes narrowing.
“That’s easy. Me.”
Her jaw drops as she places a hand over her heart like she’s offended.
“You?” she scoffs. “Please. You’d last one hour before having life-threatening gym and protein bar withdrawals.”
I bite back a laugh.
“And what about you? How could you possibly survive without checking your precious email every two seconds?”
She lifts her chin and shrugs.
“I might be an over-worker, but at least I’m resourceful. I’d hunt. I’d gather. I’d weave palm leaves into something practical. Meanwhile, you’d just be standing there—shirtless—looking pretty.”
I smirk at her, but there’s a spark of challenge behind my stare.
“Oh, you think I’d just stand around looking pretty, huh?” I toss back, quirking a brow. “I might surprise you, Meadow. I’m pretty damn good with my hands.”
She rolls her eyes, but I don’t miss the crimson spreading across her cheeks. In the back of my mind, I’m thinking about showing her exactly how useful I can be.
“Shut up, Owen. This isn't news to you. You know you’re handsome.”
I smirk, taking advantage of her words.
“Oh, I know I’m handsome,” I quip. “But no one’s ever called meprettybefore. And what are you implying? That I’m nothing but a dumb jock?”
She snorts, shaking her head.
“When you say it like that, you make me sound terrible,” she chuckles. “I’m just pointing out that we both have strengths. You’re the personality hire, and I’m the academic hire. A good team needs both. That’s why I think we’d both survive.” Her eyes glimmer in the blue reflection of the water. “As a team.”
A team.
“A team?” I repeat, enjoying the way that sounds.
She opens her mouth to respond, but the loud chime of a phone ringing slices through the moment, severing the tension.
Thinking it’s mine, I push off the pool floor and swim to the edge, palms bracing on the ledge as I reach for the glowing screen.
The name stops me cold.
Vance calling…
A dark and ugly feeling twists my gut as I stare down at the name.
It’s not my phone, and I don’t know a Vance.
Vance.
Who the fuck is Vance?
And why is he calling Meadow so fucking late at night?
My jaw flexes as a hot wave of jealousy surges through me, making the water surrounding my ribs feel a hundred degrees hotter.
My grip on the phone tightens. Every insecure, jealous instinct rises to the surface all at once, rearing its head like a deadly beast. My mind instantly conjures up every possible variation of Vance: smart, charming, Meadow’s type—someone who gets to touch, kiss, and flirt with her without having to pretend it’s a joke.
“Shit,” she blurts out, swimming toward me. “Is that me?”
