Whoops.
I take the only reasonable course of action.
Bending down, I scoop my hands into the water and send a wave cascading toward his face.
I couldn’t have aimed better if I tried. Water smacks his nose, sluicing over his hair.
Grayson doesn’t react right away. Just like when the bird imparted its gift, he freezes for a moment, eyes closed,like he’s processing whether this is reality. Whether I really just splashed his face like a five-year-old.
I guess…I did?
“You don’t know what you just started,” he states, straightening, amber eyes snapping up to mine.Danger,they scream.Get away.
“You’re the one who started it,” I defend weakly, taking a nervous step back.
“That was an accident.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“Yes, it was.”
“No, itwasn’t. And besides, you’re wearing waterproo?—"
I’m interrupted by a swoop of his arms. A wall of water slams into me, covering me from knee to chest.
For a moment, I stand there, shell-shocked. Then my chin tips down, and I take in the carnage.
He’s wearing waterproof waders up to his chest. I only got his face. Buthejust…he justsoakedme.
And from the satisfied, humored grin spreading his cheeks, he’s freakingelated.
I drop all pretense, shove my hands in the water, and send him the best tsunami I can muster. It splatters unceremoniously against his waders, reminding me how sorry of a disadvantage I’m at without any gear.
Not that Grayson cares.
He lifts a brow. And that’s the last time the water between us stands still.
Like someone’s fired a starting pistol, we engage in an all-out splashing war. He soaks me with his stupid, giant hands as I fling water back at him.Rude.Splash.Overbearing.Splash.Jerk.Splash.
Salt stings my eyes, my arms aching as I try to wipe theshit-eating grin from his face. Except at some point, I start wearing a grin too.
I startlaughing.
Because, I mean, this isridiculous.
His next splash goes straightup my nose, and I sputter like an asthmatic pig. His assault pauses, and the rumble of his chuckle filters in above my gasping. Blinking water from eyes, I scoop low, come up with a pile of muddy sand, and chuck it at his face.
This one, he dodges. He comes back with a rigid finger pointed at me. “Nowthatwas a dirty move.” His words are scolding, but his smile is amused, softening all the hard, rugged edges I’m used to.
His smile grows when he sees my eyes latch onto the giant mud-ball in his hand.
I falter.
These are my favoritejeans, and this Gold’s sweatshirt is new.
Water darkens his hair and spikes his eyelashes, making his irises glow brighter. Or maybe that’s the pure, vengeful glee lighting them up, because I am completely at his mercy, and we both know it.
“Apologize,” he demands.
