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“Do you want to go swimming?” He completely disregards my half-hearted attempt to leave.
“What?” I finally look at him.
“Swimming. You know, when you enter a body of water and flap your arms and legs about to keep from drowning?”
I smile despite myself. “That’s your definition of swimming?”
“Yup.” Wes smiles back. “You interested?”
I am, and I hate that I am. Hate the fascination that’s taken root and made me amenable to anything Weston Cole suggests.
For once, I do the stupid, irresponsible thing. “Yeah, I am.”
Wes’s answering smile is blinding. “Okay, let’s go.” He grabs my gym bag and swings it over his broad shoulder before heading toward the parking lot.
I gape after him, surprised again. I didn’t peg him as a gentleman.
Grabbing my water bottle and phone, I follow him. I open the trunk of the sedan I share with Liam, and he drops the bag inside. The jacket gets tossed in as well, since I’m still too warm to put it on despite the cool night air.
“Do you have somewhere in mind?” I ask. “Someplace no one will see us?” I tack on.
The clandestine element of any joint outing should be an obvious one, but we’re standing in plain sight in the parking lot of Glenmont’s football field right now. It’s probably the rashest thing I’ve ever done.
“Let’s go to the Fayetteville shore,” Wes replies. “Since you’re afraid to be seen with me.” He winks.
I nod in response to his first sentence; it’s the logical choice. The closest thing to neutral territory we have. Then his second sentence registers. “I’m afraid to be seen with you?” I laugh. “I doubt the Alleghany football team would be pleased to know you’re hanging out with me. Anyone seeing us together would be more like mutually assured destruction.”
“You asking me to trust you, Stevens?”
“I’m telling you I’m trustingyouon this,” I reply.
Wes nods. “You can.”
Oddly, I believe him.
“I’ll follow you.” I head toward the driver’s side of my sedan.
He nods and walks over to the shiny black SUV parked a few spots down. It looks brand-new, and I’m not surprised. I know the Coles are well-off.
I follow Wes to a driveway I’m surprised to realize I recognize. He parks beside the same cabin that hosted the Fayetteville party I attended at the end of freshman year. The first time I talked to him.
I climb out of my car. “Are we trespassing?” I ask, glancing around nervously.
Wes grins. “No. My uncle owns this place. We’re good.”
“Your uncle? So freshman year, when we—that was your party?”
“Nah, my cousin’s. He just asked me to show up.”
“Huh.”
Wes smirks. “Interesting word choice.”
“It’s catchy,” I admit.
“Come on.” Wes holds out a hand, and I grasp it, finally fulfilling my freshman year fantasy. The rush of heat I experienced imagining this then was nothing compared to the fire racing through me now in response to the sensation of his rough palm rubbing against mine. Because now I know exactly what actions those impulses are pushing me toward. Dangerous ones. But I don’t pull my hand away.
The ground is shadowed and uneven, and I had plenty of trouble navigating it last time.
