Page 49 of River & Rue

“Liar.”

The familiar, lightly mocking tone sends a pulse of warmth from my head to my feet.

I take a step toward her. Her lashes flicker, but she otherwise doesn’t react, her gaze staying on the moon. I feel absurdly victorious, like I’ve completed the first hurdle in taming a wild animal—a thought I’ll take to my grave because I’d like my balls to stay attached to my body.

“I thought it was only visible in winter. Isn’t the ring made of ice crystals?” Somehow my tone is calm, the complete opposite of my adrenaline-flooded insides.

She nods. “It’s not as common this time of year, but it has more to do with altitude and light refraction than surface temperature. That misty effect between the moon and the ring is actually from clouds high in the atmosphere. Clouds mean moisture, and moisture at altitude freezes.”

Fighting a smile, I hazard another step forward. “Is meteorology a hobby of yours?”

She makes a soft sound of amusement. “I googled it a few minutes ago.”

My grin breaks free. “I wasn’t lying, by the way. I’ve only seen the ring once, back when I was a kid. My dad called it something else. A storm ring, I think. He said it meant snow.”

Rue finally looks my way. After five days without eye contact, the connection zaps me behind the ribs.

“You’re the weather whisperer,” she says. “Is California going to have a freak snowstorm in July?”

“Hmm, let me see.”

I lick my index finger and lift it above my head, then close my eyes.

Laughter bubbles in her voice. “What are you doing?”

“Shh. I’m communing with the clouds. It’s an ancient and delicate process.” I relax and open my eyes. “No snow or rain anytime soon.”

A wry smile flashes, then she sits up and swings her feet to the ground.

“You don’t have to leave,” I say quickly, retreating a few steps. “I can go. Or do you want to leave? I can stay. Whatever you want.”

Her eyes lift, flashing like quicksilver.

“Who are you, and what have you done with River?”

Improbable laughter catches in my throat, but my voice emerges rough. “I’ve been asking myself the same question for months.”

Her eyes linger on mine, unreadable in the shadows cast by her lashes. Then the moment passes. She stands and moves to the foot of her lounger.

I’m relieved—only relieved—when she unwraps the towel to reveal a one-piece bathing suit. She shakes out the damp fabric, then knots it around her waist. Or she tries to.

As she fumbles with the corners and mumbles to herself, I can’t help but feast—from a purely artistic perspective—on the monochromatic art of her body in the moonlight. Every curve and angle of her is a study in shading and contrast. Bare feet, strong calves, flaring hips. The dim valley of her waist and the graceful bend of her torso. Shadowed throat and pearly profile. The bowed slope of her upper lip.

I ache for a pencil and paper.

She twists, still fighting with the towel, and a tendril of wet hair flies and sticks to her chest. When I trace its path downward to an expanse of creamy cleavage, my body’s immediate, aggressive opinion finally yanks me back to reality.

Tearing my eyes away, I focus on the distant shimmer of moonlight on the ocean and take slow deep breaths.

I have to believe this attraction will fade over time. It’s just biology. Chemicals I can’t control. Long months of abstinence after more than a year of performative intimacy. The illicitness of the fantasy of her; the fact she’s forbidden fruit.

Even if Rue feels the same temptation, anything physical with her is a dead end. Not only would it fuck up any chance of long-term peace between us and ruin every family gathering forever, Ivy would disown me.

Besides, I strongly suspect we’re the opposite of compatible in bed. I like being in control of my partner’s pleasure. Rue would be more likely to argue about my technique and yank my hair than submit to my whims. Every orgasm would be war.

Why does that possibility turn me on even more?

A muted screech comes from my right, followed by a wet slap against the pool deck.