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Zane and I shared two small drunken kisses the first night we met. I don’t understand where his animosity is coming from. Or why we’re sparring like an old married couple when we barely know each other.
I search for another stone to avoid those angry, accusatory eyes. “Dammit,” I spit when I toss it and it sinks again instead of skipping.
Zane chuckles at my frustration, and it only pisses me off more. I lift another rock from the ground. Zane’s fingers collapse around my wrist, holding it hostage.
“I wasn’t sure you’d even remember that we kissed,” Zane says. His voice is low, and his hand is burning my skin where he’s holding me. “You were hammered that night.”
“I remember.” My voice lowers, and my eyes drop to the ground as my mind drifts back to that moment. “But I just figured it was no big deal to you. You seem to have plenty of female attention. That was probably an ordinary night for you. I’m sure I’m just one of many.”
I want him to argue with me and tell me I’m wrong.
“You’ve got an interesting impression of me, especially when you barely know me. Where’s it coming from?” He glances away when I don’t answer. Then, he scoffs. “Let me guess … Wyatt?”
A few beats go by where we’re both silent. I wonder where the competitiveness between Wyatt and Zane stems from. Maybe their snowboarding days?
He’s still holding my wrist. The rocks shift when he steps around behind me, pulling me against his chest. My spine stiffens. He smells good, and the hard lines of his chest feel even better. He turns us until our sides are facing the water. One hand is on my waist, anchoring me. And the other slides from my wrist to engulf my fingers. He grips the stone with me, coaching me through the mechanics of skipping rocks. But all I can focus on is how close he’s standing to me and how good his breath feels against my cheek. My pants and long-sleeved shirt form a thin barrier between our skin. I can feel every inch of him as he starts to harden against my hip.
We toss the stone together. It skips once before the surface swallows it up. He doesn’t release me though. Instead, he leansin until his lips are brushing the outer edge of my ear. I close my eyes.
“You weren’t,” he murmurs.
The water is lapping lazily on the shore.
I arch my back until I’m pressing harder against his groin. His warm breath quickens across my neck, causing goose bumps to rise on my skin.
“What?” I whisper.
“You weren’t one of many,” he murmurs. “And it was a big deal to me. In fact, I can’t stop thinking about it. Reliving it in my mind.”
The tip of his tongue traces the edge of my ear. His lips collapse around my soft lobe, sucking and tugging on it for a moment. I lean my head back, and he takes that as an invitation to press a soft kiss on my neck.
“Lo!” Wyatt suddenly shouts.
My eyes open, and I shove away from Zane. Wyatt is standing at the top of the hill, looking down at us with a frown.
I feel guilty, but I’m not sure why. I’ve never made any promises to Wyatt. As far as I’m concerned, we’re two friends out for a fun night. But I don’t think that’s how Wyatt is looking at it. I turn until Zane and I are facing each other. I take another step away from him.
“We should get back,” I mumble.
Zane’s expression hardens.
I pause, aware that Wyatt is watching us from above, but can’t hear what I’m saying. So, I ask a question that’s been on my mind. “Why did you walk me home that first night? Why did you kiss me?”
Zane’s brow furrows. “I wasn’t going to let you walk home alone.” He glances away and then back again. “You were crying …”
My face falls.He felt sorry for me.
The magic of the moment with Zane disappears with his confession. I can’t think of anything worse than a hot guy kissing me out of pity. I look at the water and then turn my back and start hiking up the pathway.
It’s dark now, except for the moonlight reflecting off the lake. The mountains look like huge, ominous shadows towering high into the night sky.
Wyatt reaches for me when I’m almost at the top, and I let him pull me up the rest of the way. I’m not sure if Zane is behind me or if he stayed on the shore. I don’t turn to look. And Wyatt doesn’t drop my hand.
“Was he hitting on you?” There’s an edge to Wyatt’s voice that I don’t really like.
“What?” I ask.
“Z … was he hitting on you?”
