"Get up, you absolute moron." But Sarah laughs. "And yes, I'll still marry you."
Matt jumps up and pulls her into a kiss that belongs on a movie poster, dipping her so dramatically that even I have to admit it's kind of swoon-worthy. I catch Preston mouthing "animals" to Magnolia, who nods in agreement, but is fighting her own smile.
"Well," Kristal claps her hands, "I think we could all use a break. Ten minutes, everyone!"
I grab a water bottle, watching Matt and Sarah across the lawn. "That was intense."
"That's one word for it." Caleb appears beside me, reaching for his own bottle. There's a smear of mud across his jaw, and I swipe at it without thinking.
"You've got . . ." My thumb catches against his stubble, and his breath hitches, just slightly, as I clean away the dirt. Those baby blues darken, sparking heat that pools low in my belly. "Saving me from looking like I lost a fight with the garden?"
My gaze drops to his mouth, catching on his crooked smile. When his grin widens, something electric snaps between us, thinning the morning air.
"Well," I manage, dropping my hand from his face. "Someone has to keep you in check. Though the garden's definitely winning this round."
He laughs, breaking whatever spell we'd stumbled into. "Speaking of cleaning up messes," he says, shoving his hairback, "seeing Sarah annihilate both their masculinity? My brother hit the jackpot with that one."
"Your mom was kind of badass out there, too."
His smile turns proud. "Right? I've never seen Dad so . . ." He mimics Greg's stunned expression perfectly, and I snort water through my nose.
"Very dignified, Shortcake."
"Shut up." I wipe my face with my sleeve. "By the way, nice work letting us win back there."
"Yeah, well." He shrugs. "Virginia was being a bitch."
"That's her default setting."
"True."
"Think if we fake an injury like Carter, we can escape this nightmare?"
"God, I wish." Caleb rolls his shoulder, wincing. "Though my arm's still dead from where you used it as a pillow all night."
My face burns, traitorous heat spilling into my cheeks. After spending all morning acting like last night never happened, now he's just . . . bringing it up? The shift gives me emotional whiplash, but I can't deny the little thrill that runs through me at him finally acknowledging it.
"I did not sleep on your arm." The lie comes out weak, especially since I distinctly remember the solid weight of his bicep under my cheek.
"Same way as you didn't talk in your sleep?" His dimples flash. "Because I've got some interesting intel that says otherwise."
"I don't talk in my sleep!"
"Whatever you say, babe." He winks, and my stomach does this stupid little flip. The casual endearment rolls off his tongue like he's been calling me that forever. "Though your subconscious has some fascinating opinions about me."
Is he actually flirting withme? Like, for real flirting?
"What did I say?"
"Wouldn't you like to know?" His grin turns wicked. "Let's just say if your dreams were a movie, they'd get an NC-17 rating."
"You're making it up. My subconscious has nothing to hide." Except the hitch in my voice ruins the lie.
"No?" He steps closer, shrinking the space between us. "Then I guess I dreamed the part where you—"
"I'll take the couch tonight," I cut in, because apparently my self-preservation instinct kicks in right when things get interesting. "Save your arm from my allegedly aggressive cuddling."
"Not happening." His voice drops low, sending heat straight between my legs. "That couch is medieval torture. Besides . . ." He catches my wrist, thumb stroking over my pulse in a way that's definitely not innocent. "I kind of like when you mumble my name in your sleep."
