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“Okay, deal,” I tell him.
We’re both silent again, and the quiet gives me a chance to catalog an array of subtle details: the way his light brown hair looks black now that it’s wet, the freckle on his right collarbone, and the enticing curve of his lips as he watches me study him.
“We should, uh, we should head in,” I suggest. My arms and legs are getting tired from treading water, but I’m more concerned about what might happen if I stay in this lake with him. I feel flushed again, despite the chilly water we’re submerged in.
Wes nods, and we swim side-by-side back to shore. The air temperature feels warmer than the water did. Wes sneaks a few peeks at me as we walk back over to our small heaps of clothes, which I only catch because I’m doing the same thing to him. Since neither of us are wearing actual swimwear, the water has done nothing but make our scanty outfits even more revealing.
My shorts slide back on easily, but it’s no easy feat to pull my tight tank top on over my soaking sports bra. I think I hear Wes let out a low laugh as I do an awkward shimmy to slide it back on, but it’s impossible to tell over the sound of the water lapping against the shore. His face is serious when he holds his hand out to me again and leads me back through the woods.
We’re both silent, but it’s not an awkward silence. It’s a comfortable one. I don’t feel this at ease with guys I’ve known since kindergarten.
We pass the cabin and arrive back at our cars. It’s an odd sight, seeing an SUV with anAlleghany Footballbumper sticker parked next to mine with aGlenmont Footballone.
“Parting is such sweet sorrow,” I quote as we stop between the two parked cars.
Weston smirks. “You making fun of me, Stevens?”
“Yes I am, Cole,” I respond shamelessly.
His smirk deepens. “William would be proud. See you tomorrow, Maeve.”
CHAPTERFIVE
WESTON
I’ve spent more time thinking about Maeve Stevens than I would ever admit to anyone.
I’ve told her things I’d never told anyone else. Prior to learning any of the basic information you typically acquire about someonebeforeconfiding in them.
I’ve fantasized about the way she looked at me on that abandoned log, while other girls were begging for my attention.
I’ve kissed her. Because I wanted to the entire time I first spoke to her in the woods—both before and after she told me her last name.
She’s an epically bad idea.
I know it.
But it hasn’t kept me from considering it. Hasn’t kept me from doing a damn thing, to be honest. Last night was supposed to get her out of my head.
Instead, she got more under my skin in the two hours we spent together than I thought possible. I’m not a sharer; I don’t open up to people. Especially girls.
I’m tempted to blame my uncharacteristic vulnerability on the fact she shocked the shit out of me when she stripped down to her sports bra and that tiny scrap of pink lace. It’s a move I’d expect from Natalie or one of the other girls who hang around me, but from Maeve Stevens? Entirely unexpected. Based on everything I’ve heard and observed, I was half-expecting her to enter the water fully dressed.
But I can’t blame everything on that. Because I invited her to this field long before she took any clothes off. And I still can’t believe I did.
There are a dozen soccer fields in Fayetteville, and I gave her the address to the only one I have any sentimental attachment to.
Before my family moved to Alleghany, we’d come visit my dad’s brother for a week each summer at the same lakeside cabin I brought Maeve to last night. Every minute I wasn’t at the lake, I’d spend with my dad at this park, playing football. Back then, it was the one week he fully detached from his work, and it’s one of the few fond childhood memories I have with him, back when we had a functioning relationship. Even though we live only twenty minutes away from it now, we’ve never been back to this field together.
I always come alone.
Except for today.
I watch Maeve Stevens walk across the field toward me, clutching a water bottle in one hand with a soccer ball tucked under her other arm. She’s wearing navy shorts with a matching tank top, and her blonde hair is up in a high ponytail that swishes as she strides along.
She stops a couple feet away from me, dropping the black and white patterned ball.
“Hey,” she greets, studying me. A light flush works its way across her freckled cheeks, which I don’t think is due to the warm summer air. She was quick to shut down any intimate moments last night, but if the number of glances she gave my body were any indication, it wasn’t because she isn’t interested. I’m assuming it’s because she knows she shouldn’t be. Something I should be thinking about too but can’t seem to care about whenever she’s around.
