Chad claps his hands together. “Loop around the center buoy and back. Fastest couple wins.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “That’s you two lovebirds.”
Rowan turns toward him with slow, irritated focus. “Can I request a different partner?”
“Nope,” Chad says, cheerful to the point of delusion. “Firm-mandated chemistry.”
Rowan exhales through his nose, the kind of quiet frustration that tells me he’s one inch from walking straight into the lake.
And honestly?
Same.
“Fuck me,” Rowan mutters, stepping into the boat.
I follow, because apparently, my survival instincts took a personal day. The boat rocks hard under our weight. My stomach drops straight through the floor. This is it. This is how I die—not in a courtroom defending the innocent, but ass-first into a lake, wearing my nicest underwear.
Rowan steadies the boat without comment, one hand braced on the edge, the other catching my elbow as I lower into the front seat.
His fingers press into my arm through the fabric. Five points of heat. Five reminders that my body still does stupid things around this man.
We settle. Oars in hand. The water makes soft slapping sounds against the dock that definitely don’t sound sexual at all. Thanks, brain. The morning is stupidly peaceful—the kind of quiet that normal people find relaxing. People who aren’t sittingtwo feet from their ex while wearing athletic gear that shows exactly how not over it their body is.
I grip the oars tighter. The wood is already making my palms sweat. Or maybe that’s just me. Hard to tell at this point.
The lake stretches out, all sparkly and postcard perfect. Pine trees lean in along the shoreline, doing their best Bob Ross impression. A breeze sends hair directly into my mouth. I scrape it back behind my ear.
“Ready?” Chad calls.
“No,” Rowan deadpans.
I lift my oars anyway, because someone has to pretend we’re functional adults.
“On your mark?—”
“Just remember,” Rowan says behind me, his voice closer than I expected, “if we capsize, I’m letting you flail for a full thirty seconds before I help.”
“Team spirit. I love that for us.”
“Rowan and Tessa, go!”
We push off.
The boat lurches violently to the left.
A sound escapes me—not quite a scream, more like a stepped-on cat.
Rowan swears under his breath. Something creative, involving anatomy and poor life choices.
We overcorrect. The boat swings right. Water splashes up, soaking my knee. Then we’re gliding.
One stroke. Two.
And somehow… it works.
The boat moves in a steady rhythm, and my body falls into it immediately. Not the rowing itself, but the us of it—the weird synchronization we always had, even when we were arguing about everything else.
Behind me, Rowan’s breathing settles into something even and controlled.
Of course, it does.
