“Maybe tomorrow,” I say, though I can’t seem to pull my eyes away from him.
Connor swims toward the shore, and as the water gets shallower, he stands up and walks the rest of the way. I’ve seen him shirtless a couple of times now, but something about this—the way water streams down his chest and shoulders, how his black swim shorts suddenly seem absurdly short against his massive quadriceps—makes my heart pound against my ribs.
My mother nudges Dad. “Daniel, let’s go get changed before dinner.” She gives him a meaningful look that isn’t subtle at all.
They walk away, clearly giving Connor and me privacy, which is both embarrassing and weirdly touching. My mother’s desperate hope that Connor might actually stick around isso transparent it’s almost painful—especially since, for all she knows, he’s the only serious boyfriend I’ve ever had.
Connor continues toward me, drops of water tracing paths down his chest and stomach. Goosebumps rise along his arms despite his earlier claim that the water feels great.
“Hey,” he says, running a hand through his wet hair, slicking it back from his forehead. “Sleep well?”
“Yeah,” I say, trying not to stare at him below the neck. “When did you wake up?”
“About an hour ago. I saw your sister swimming and decided to join.” He grins. “The water feels amazing. Sure you don’t want a dip?”
“Positive,” I say. “I can see you shivering from here.”
“That’s just the transition from water to air,” he argues, reaching for my hand suddenly. “Come on. You’re wearing way too many clothes.”
He tugs me toward the water, and I laugh, trying to plant my feet in the rocky shore.
“Connor, no—I’m serious!”
He doesn’t let go, instead reaching for my hoodie with his free hand. “Just a quick dip,” he says, catching the zipper and tugging it down an inch before I can stop him. “You need to stay active, baby.”
The way he saysbabymakes something in my stomach twist. I know he’s just joking, but still, hearing it from him, when he’s smiling like that is almost dizzying.
We struggle at the edge of the shore, laughing, my hand gripping his wrist while his fingers remain tangled in my partlyunzipped hoodie. He’s stronger than me, but he’s not really trying, just playing. Still, the closeness—his damp chest, his face inches away, his eyes bright with mischief—makes my breath catch.
For a moment, something shifts between us. His smile fades slightly, and his gaze drops to my mouth. My heart hammers so loudly I’m certain he can hear it.
My sleep-softened brain might be making this up, but is he about to—
The crunch of tires on gravel cuts through the moment like a knife. Connor’s fingers slip from my hoodie as we both turn toward the sound. A sleek black Range Rover rolls up the driveway, its headlights sweeping across the trees before settling on us. My stomach drops. I know exactly who’s inside.
Dad, already on the doorstep of the Main Cottage, turns toward the approaching vehicle, one hand shielding his eyes from the glare. “The Scotts are here,” he announces, as if I might have somehow missed the car or forgotten who we were waiting for.
The Range Rover comes to a stop, and for a moment, no one emerges. Then the engine dies, and the driver’s door swings open. Brad Scott steps out in crisp khakis and a perfectly pressed navy blazer, looking as though he’s just walked off the set of an expensive watch commercial instead of spending three hours in a car. His wife Maria follows from the passenger side, elegant as ever in white linen pants and a flowing blouse, her honey-blonde hair twisted into a perfect chignon.
My heart hammers against my ribs as the rear door opens.
And then Rick steps out.
My chest constricts painfully. He looks exactly the same—tall and broad-shouldered, with that perfectly styled blond hair that catches the last of the evening light. He’s wearing chinos and a light blue button-down with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, exposing tanned forearms. The shirt fits him perfectly, stretching against the shoulders built from years of rowing crew. Every inch of him screams privilege and good breeding.
Rick turns and offers his hand to the final passenger, and Cassidy emerges in a flowing white sundress, her long blonde hair loose around her shoulders. They look like a matched set—beautiful and polished and perfect.
I suddenly feel small and rumpled in my wrinkled T-shirt and hoodie, my hair still messed from sleep. Next to me, Connor is literally dripping lake water onto the ground. We could not look less put-together if we tried.
I can’t speak. I can’t move. I can only watch as our parents greet each other by the cars, their voices carrying across the property—easy laughter, the familiarity of old friends.
“Hey, guys! How was the drive?”
“Not bad at all. Traffic was light for once.”
“That’s rare for a Friday.”
“Tell me about it. We were bracing for the worst.”
