“What I’m hearing,” I say, my voice a low rumble, “is you’d rather watch me drown—” I pause, letting the silence stretch between us. “—than kiss me.”
Her eyes don’t leave mine.
“Correct.”
“What’s wrong with my mouth? Too much truth? Too much tongue?”
“I didn’t say anything was wrong with it.”
“You’re dodging the question. Is it me kissing you that’s making you nervous?” I whisper, my breath hot against her ear. “Or what happens after you don’t hate it?”
She rolls her eyes, but color floods her cheeks.
“Ohhh, here we go.” Her gaze stays on my lips. “Do you practice these lines in the mirror?”
“Tell me something, Stopwatch.” I reach out, finally brushing my thumb over her bottom lip. “If I quit asking and just did it, would you stop me?”
Her sharp inhale tells me everything.
I dip closer, ready to enjoy exactly how that mouth tastes. One inch. One reckless second. I’m done overthinking. Done pretending I don’t want this.
Her lips part.
Mine almost—
A door squeaks somewhere beyond the deck. Someone is coming.
We freeze.
Shit! What am I doing? We work together. We’re fighting for the same damn promotion. If I win, I’ll be her fucking boss.
I pull back, and her expression tightens. Not quite anger, something worse.Disappointment?
“Finish your laps,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel.
Her chin lifts. “You my coach now?”
I drag myself out of the pool.
Behind me, Ivy charges across the water again, her strokes knifing through the surface like she’s trying to punish it.
I drag a hand through my wet hair and keep walking. I don’t look back.
Because if I do, I’ll dive back in and kiss her senseless. Consequences be damned.
Chapter Seven
Ivy
The lawn is a sea of skin—bikinis and board shorts set against the Bellwether’s iconic red roof. There’s a pulse to the crowd, bodies in motion, voices carrying, the kind of energy that builds fast and doesn’t ask permission. If this were a spring break reality show, Blaze Tate would absolutely be the host.
“ALRIGHT, MY SEA LEGEND SQUAD!” Blaze skids to a halt, mic in hand, grinning like he just caught the perfect wave. “If you’re getting roped up with someone like a human pretzel, YOU’RE OFFICIALLY IN THE ENTANGLEMENT GAMES!”
The audience roars as the Pacific glitters behind him.
A hundred sun-flushed, thirsty singles in strategically minimal swimwear—designed to accentuate assets(and yes, asses)—cluster together, laughing and flirting, while hotel staff pair them off and loop colored rope around their bodies.
One couple tests their binding and immediately stumbles. The girl gasps, then crash-lands on his lap. Neither of them seems to mind, judging by their giggles.
