3
TICK TOCK
CHLOE
Who thought it was a good idea to make lakes so cold? Or so wet? Or so slimy?
I right myself under the water, treading even though it’s not too deep. But this is no easy feat with sneakers on. But I manage, then pop my head above the surface, batting at the hair sticking to my face as I blink lake water out of my eyes.
When two strong arms wrap around my waist.
Is that…?
I look up. Sawyer’s kneeling on the dock, arms stretched into the water—and he’s lifting me out of it.
He’s hauling me up like I weigh nothing, tugging me back onto the wood slats. My soaked body smacks into his…very firm chest. Yep. I was right about the arms. Right about the chest. He’s all kinds of strong.
“I’ve got you,” he says, steady and calm, pulling me the rest of the way…right into his lap.
I’m still a little dazed—getting tackled by a rowdy partier will do that to you. But still, I manage to say, “I’m surprised you didn’t jump in after me.”
“You don’t strike me as the kind of woman who wants a man making himself the center of attention.”
Damn. He’s right. “It would have beenridiculoustoo, right?”
He arches a brow in a way that says he’ll go toe-to-toe with me. “Want a do-over and I’ll jump in this time?”
“Maybe I do,” I tease.
“Also, the water’s maybe three feet deep,” he says and, okay, he has a point. “Didn’t seem like you needed rescuing.”
“Spoken like a man who’s never watched Mr. Darcy emerge from the lake inPride and Prejudice.”
His smile quirks, sexy and wry. “My white shirtiswet,” he says, plucking at the fabric. “But if you want the full Darcy moment, say the word.”
I’m more interested in his shirt now though. I glance down, and hello, six-pack. “Yes, it is.”
Then I glance at myself.
Oh. Oh no.
My white dress is soaked. And officially see-through. Of course this has happened tonight. Of course it has happened to me.
Evidently, the universe won’t let me have nice things—like a steady job, a working car, or a flirty moment with a hot guy that isn’t ruined by a public nipple situation.
Well, the water was seriously cold.
I shift, trying to adjust the sopping fabric so my peaks aren’tMount Everesting the entire party, even through my lace bra, when a blur of bronze skin and bangles flies my way.
“Shitballs! Chloe! Are you okay?” Florence, who’s never met a foul word that isn’t improved as a compound noun, skids to a stop at the edge of the dock, flanked by a very concerned Bagel. Her lifeguard boyfriend spins around too, worry in his eyes.
I could tell Florence the truth. I’m not okay today. I got framed, then canned, and now I’m soaked, thanks to a Mastiff the size of a car. But she doesn’t really want to know that.
I fold my arms over my chest and flash a big smile as I rise. Sawyer stands too, looking much better in a wet shirt than I do.
“I’m all good,” I say to Florence, since at least I cansort ofnetwork by being super chill with the host about the wholeparty guest knocking me into the lakesituation.
Where is the party guest? I don’t see the Mastiff nearby. Ah, there he is off in the corner with…someone. I can’t make out who it is with the sunglasses and hat, but she looks mortified as she chides her big pup.
