My heart stops. "I did not—"
"Three times. But who's counting?"
Either Magnolia's weaponized bouquet knocked me out and this is some strange fever dream, or I'm hallucinating, because there's no way this is happening right now.
"Fine." I try for casual, but my voice comes out husky. "But if I start sharing state secrets in my sleep, you better wake me up."
"Not a chance." His fingers trail down my arm. "Though if you want to act out some of those dreams while we're both awake . . ." He lets the suggestion hang there.
I'm halfway to responding when Greg's voice cuts across the lawn. "Caleb! Get over here!"
He doesn't move, his eyes still locked on mine. "We'll finish this later."
"CALEB!" Greg bellows again.
"Coming!" He calls back, but not before throwing me one last heated look.
My eyes trail after him, trying to pinpoint when our usual banter turned into this game of sexual chicken. I don't know when the rules changed, but one of us is about to break.
Steam clings to myskin as I step out of the bathroom, finally clean after mud found its way into places mud should never go. Cool water trails down my back as I adjust my towel, the chaos of this morning'sbonding activitiesstill spinning in my head.
The games had been a mess, but the look on Preston's face when Kristal declared "everyone's a winner"? That alone almost made the bruise on my thigh worth it.
I flip my wet hair forward, wringing out the excess water as droplets scatter across my shoulders. The towel shifts high on my thighs as I straighten, and I'm halfway to my suitcase when the bedroom door opens.
Caleb stops dead in the doorway.
One beat.
Then another.
His stare tracks a drop of water sliding from my collarbone like he's cataloging its path. He doesn't blink. Doesn't speak. Just shiftsslightly, but it's enough to sharpen the air between us. The way he's looking at me sends a low current skimming beneath my skin.
"Sorry," I manage, very aware that this towel might as well be made of wishes and good intentions. "I thought you went down for dinner."
His throat works as his gaze travels up my body, slow and hot enough to leave scorch marks. When those baby blues finally meet mine, they're dark as storm clouds.
"Trust me, babe." His voice is low, frayed at the edges, and it lands somewhere deep in my spine. "Food is the last thing on my mind right now."
"I should . . ." I point toward my suitcase, but my hand stalls midair when he takes a step closer.
He shakes his head, dousing whatever had just sparked in his eyes. "Wear something comfortable. I've got a surprise."
"What kind of surprise?"
"Wouldn't be much fun if I spoiled it, would it?" He smirks, and I swear to God, whoever gave Caleb Miller those dimples needs to be tried for crimes against womankind.
"If this is another round of bouquet dodgeball, I'm throwing you in front of the roses."
He laughs, breaking the last of the spell we'd stumbled into, and I grab my clothes before my hormones can stage a full coup.
In the bathroom, I stare at my reflection—cheeks flushed, pupils blown wide—and make a decision. No more running. No more second-guessing every charged moment between us.
The signs are there —the lingering touches, the heat in his eyes, the way he flirts like it's second nature. I can't be imagining it . . . right?
I drag on my favorite denim overalls and a gauzy white top, my hands steadier than my heartbeat. Maybe it's the wedding energy, or I'm just done pretending. Done acting like my heart doesn't raceevery time he gets close. Done being scared of ruining something that might actually be better if we stopped fighting whatever this is between us.
I braid my wet hair off my neck, the water soaking slowly into the cotton. Tonight feels different. Like we're standing on the edge of something new, and for once, I don't want to step back. I want to jump.
