On Monday, I round the corner from the hallway and nearly walk directly into Mason's chest. He's just out of the shower, looking incredibly sexy with his damp hair, and we both freeze.
"Sorry," he says, stepping aside.
"No, sorry, I—" My hand brushes his arm as I walk past him. The contact lasts maybe half a second. I feel it for the rest of the afternoon.
The thing is, Mason isn't making anything weird. Mason is being perfectly, maddeningly normal. He makes coffee in the morning and leaves the pot on for me. He texts the group chat about groceries. We sometimes hang out with Knox and Arthur. All without him radiating tension or expectation, which sucks, because it means the weirdness is entirely mine. I'm totally the one lying awake at night replaying thekiss.
By Friday evening, the memory has set up permanent residence in my brain. It has unpacked, decorated, hung little curtains. It is not leaving.
Which is exactly when Knox knocks on my bedroom door and leans in with a grin, reminding me tomorrow is his turn to show me around.
"Wear something you don't mind getting wet in," he says.
That sounds dirty.
"That's ominous," I say instead.
"It's going to be great, it's supposed to be seventy-three degrees." He taps his knuckles against the doorframe twice, already taking a step backward into the hall. "Anyway. Have a good night."
***
"You'll be fine," Knox promises, already straddling the jet ski.
He's wearing a wetsuit, and I am having a private crisis about it. The neoprene clings in a way his usual henleys and button-downs absolutely do not, outlining shoulders and arms that have clearly been doing more than writing code.
He catches me looking and his grin widens.
"You've done this before, I assume," I say, crossing my arms.
"At least forty-three times." He pats the seat behind him. "Never lost anyone."
"Promise?" I ask.
"I do."
Famous last words.
I settle my hands on his waist. The wetsuit is warm from the sun, the thick neoprene doing nothing to hide the hard, solid lines of his obliques beneath it. My pulse does a stupid, fluttery little kick. Straddling the seat directly behind him, my thighs bracketing his, feels wildly, dangerously intimate.
The engine roars to life and we pull away from the dock.
Okay, this isn't too scary. It's even—
"Ready?" he asks.
"For wha—"
He twists the throttle, and the world accelerates.
The wind hits like a wall as the jet ski rises, skimming the surface, and my hands tighten on his waist, a sound leaving my mouth that is part laugh, part scream, and entirely undignified.
We carve across the lake in sweeping turns that send water in wide arcs. He wasn't lying. Knox is a great driver, confident and smooth, and after a few minutes I stop bracing for death. Lake Vienne blurs past, the treeline smearing green and gold, and for the first time all week my brain isn't running circles.
At one point we hit a sharp turn and my grip slips. Before I can overcorrect, Knox reaches back with one hand and catches my forearm, pressing it firmly against his side.
"I've got you," he says over his shoulder.
The anchoring weight of his hand pinning my arm against his solid ribs sends a hot, sudden spike of electricity straight to my core. I am instantly, deeply grateful he can't see my face.
