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But she slid into the car almost immediately, pulling the door shut behind her.
When he started the ignition, Becca twisted the dials to blast the heater. Her car protested and blew cold air, but she slapped her hand on the dash until it finally gave in. She pressed her hands against the vents and shivered, a rush of breath through her teeth.
Chris glanced at the clock on the dash. Barely ten. The water on her skin was talking to him, coaxing him to reach out and run a finger along her wrist.
Where those stupid rock bracelets were hanging.
Chris kept both hands locked on the wheel.
“What’s wrong?” she said. “You run out of one-liners?”
He kept silent for a long moment, then glanced over. “I didn’t mean to get in the middle of your date.”
She didn’t look at him, but she mimicked his tone. “It wasn’t a date.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“Look, if you’re just going to be a jerk—”
“I’m not.” He paused. Maybe he was. “Forget it.”
She seemed to edge away from him somehow. He heard her sigh, a soft breath of air. Her shoulders looked tight, hunched against the cold.
Or hunched against him?
“Thanks,” he said. His voice sounded rough. “For not telling him what I said.”
She looked up. “Did you think I would?”
He had no idea. He’d never told anyone before. That moment when they’d knelt in the surf and the water flowed between their fingers—it felt intimate, powerful. The water liked her. He wanted to drag her back to the beach and do it again.
That frightened him, a bit. It felt as if he’d turned something loose that he’d never be able to catch. If he made this a big deal, would she?
He just shrugged and brushed wet hair out of his eyes.
“Thanks,” she said. “For pulling me out of the water. For what you did.”
A smile pulled at his lips. “I owed you.”
“I probably should have just taken the cash.”
He laughed softly, but then silence fell between them again. He glanced over.
That was a mistake. Her shirt was slicked to her skin, catching the light from oncoming cars to accent the soft curves of her body.
He jerked his eyes back to the road. “If you don’t mind ... it’s probably better if Michael doesn’t hear about the gun.” Michael would shit a brick if he knew about that—especially if he found out Becca was there.
“Sure,” she said.
He hesitated. “It’s probably better if Michael doesn’t hear about any of it, really.”
Now he could feel the weight of her eyes, and he did his best to keep his own on the stretch of dark pavement. She wanted answers. He didn’t blame her. If a dick like Tyler had been shooting at him on her account, he probably wouldn’t be sitting there as patiently as she was.
Then again, she was still shivering. Was it all cold? Should he reach out and touch her?
He remembered the way she’d snapped at him in the cafeteria, like the words had etched themselves into his brain. But he kept thinking of the feel of her hand in his, how she’d hung close to him in the water.
Or how soft her lips had been.
