Page 122 of Ghosted

She’s standing near the edge in a black bra and panties, arms wrapped around herself, chin lifted like she’s daring me to look too long and daring me not to look at all.

I don’t know what to do with that, so I do the only safe thing.

I step into the water first.

Cold closes around my legs, then my waist, then my chest when I sink lower. It steals the air out of me for half a second, sharp and clean and exactly what I came here for.

Alice watches me from the edge. “You always look this miserable when relaxing?”

“Pretty much.”

“Hot.”

My mouth almost twitches. “Get in, ghost girl.”

She rolls her eyes, but she sits on the edge and lowers herself into the pool. The second the water hits her, she sucks in a breath and grabs the ledge.

“Jesus fuck, Jagger.”

“It warms up.”

“You’re a fucking liar.”

I smirk.

She glares at me, but it’s there again. That little piece of her. The sharp one, proof despite whatever my brother’s done to her now, it’s still alive.

I stay back while she adjusts to the cold, giving her room as the water moves around her and the blue light cuts soft over her skin. She looks wrecked and furious and beautiful in a way that makes my chest hurt.

She’s shaking a little from the cold, one hand still on the ledge, but her eyes don’t move from mine. I want to promise her I won’t fight. I want to be the kind of person who can say the clean thing and mean it.

But I’m not.

And if I lie to her now, she’ll know.

“I can’t not fight him tonight, but from now on, I won’t use you as an excuse,” I say.

Alice studies me for a long second before she nods once. It isn’t forgiveness. It isn’t trust. But it’s something.

She lets go of the ledge and moves toward me through the water, slow and careful at first, testing whether the choice still belongs to her.

I don’t move.

Every instinct in my body screams to reach for her, pull her in, prove she’s here with me and not him. Instead, I stay where I am and let her close the distance herself.

Her fingers brush my chest.

Barely anything.

It hits worse than a punch.

“Do you still want me?” she asks.

The question guts me.

“Yes.”

Her gaze drops to my mouth, then back up. “Even after⁠—”