Hard.Ha!
I blush at being caught staring.Busted! “Nope. Just calculating how fast hypothermia sets in. You know—for science.”
His laugh is low and delicious, and my stomach goeswheeeee!
We both wade in farther, the water surprisingly clear. The sun warms my shoulders, but everything else is chilly, bracing, like the lake is daring us to be brave enough to stay.
And then he says it.
“About last night . . .”
Oh no. I freeze. I am not ready to face the obvious: I have a mad crush on my roommate.
“What about it?” I ask carefully, trying to keep my voice light.
He shrugs, his tone casual, but I don’t miss the tension in his shoulders. “I don’t want it to be weird between us.”
Nope, nope, nope. Don’t wanna talk about it.
“So,” I say, needing to change the subject before I combust. “What exactly are the rules here? Do we do the whole ‘let’s never speak of this again’ thing? Or are we going for a postgame analysis?”
Maverick grins over at me, wading deeper into the water. “I remember your thighs shaking around my face,” he informs me. “That’s stuck in my head.”
My breath catches. He looks as if he’s thinking about walking over and kissing me.
And I wouldn’t stop him.
For someone who prides herself on being chill, you’d think I would be more immune to men with forearms that look carved frommarble—and a smile that does dangerous things to my bloodstream. That is aproblem.
His grin deepens. “Sure you don’t want to keep talking about it?”
“Nope.” I shake my head emphatically. “What is there to discuss? We were two consenting adults, alone in a cabin, forced into sharing a bed and poor decisions.”
“Speak for yourself,” he says. “I madeexcellentdecisions.”
I open my mouth to deliver some appropriately flirty comeback, but I don’t get the chance—because in the next second, he squeals. A full-body, undignified, borderline-girlish scream.
“Oh my God, something touched me!” he shouts, eyes wide in pure panic. “It brushed against my leg!”
Maverick absolutely loses his shit.
He launches backward in the water as if he’s been harpooned, arms flailing, flapping uncontrollably like he’s single-handedly trying to drain the lake. His voice hits an octave I didn’t even know existed in the male registry—a shriek so dramatic it startles the birds roosting in a nearby tree.
“Help!It’s Got Me,” he shrieks, now thrashing like a cartoon villain caught in a bear trap. “I’m Being Pulled Under!”
I can barely catch my breath. “You are in barely three feet of water.”
His hands slap at the surface, knees flying comically high as he flees whatever ghost fish he thinks touched him below the surface.
“Fuck,Fuck,Fuck!” he screeches. “Tell My Family I Love Them!”
I am doubled over at this point, sinking into the water with a giggle fit. Can hardly breathe when Maverick trips on a submerged rock, stumbles, then belly flops forward with a splash that sends ripples in a thousand directions.
He flops onto the shoreline, body collapsing onto the beach, limbs sprawled, chest heaving like he just survived a shark attack.
Dear Lord. “Are you dying? Do I need to call for help? Should I start CPR?”
He throws a hand over his face and groans. “Don’t talk to me.”
