"Good answer. Smart girl." She reaches into her cooler, pulls out a beer. "You need anything—beer, snacks, someone to smack those two upside the head—I'm your girl."
"Noted."
She gestures toward the water with her own beer. "Now go cool off before you melt. You're looking pink. And watch out for Finn—he's already declared himself the swimming hole activities director and he's recruiting people for some water volleyball."
I leave my flip-flops near Holt's truck—there's a growing pile of shoes and bags, everything just left in communal trust—spread my towel on a flat rock that's already warm from the sun, and shimmy out of my cut-offs. The bikini's simple—black triangle top, matching bottoms—but when I straighten up and turn around, I catch Holt looking.
Not staring. Just... looking. Quick, like he didn't mean to, like his gaze caught on me and stuck for half a second before he remembered himself.
He pulls his shirt off—one smooth motion, tossing it on his towel—and Jesus Christ, the tattoos. Black and gray ink covering both arms completely, crawling up one side of his neck: wolves mid-stride with their hackles up, clockwork gears that look like they might actually turn, military insignia I don't recognize but that probably mean something significant. His chest is bare, his build exactly what I expected after watching him work—broad shoulders, some softness around the middle, strength that came from hauling engines and crawling under trucks plus a few beers.
And the prosthetic. Right leg, above the knee, carbon-fiber visible beneath his swim trunks, all sleek engineering and modern design. It's just... there. Part of him. He doesn't hideit, doesn't call attention to it, doesn't do anything except stand there like a man about to jump in a swimming hole on a hot Thursday afternoon.
"SCOUT!" Finn's voice carries across the water. "Stop ogling Holt and GET IN HERE!"
My face goes hot. "I wasn't—"
"YOU ABSOLUTELY WERE!" Finn yells back, bobbing in the water with that shit-eating grin. "IT'S FINE! HE'S VERY OGLEABLE! BUT THE WATER'S COLD AND YOU'RE MISSING IT!"
Several people around the pool laugh, and I shoot Finn the most aggressive middle finger I can manage while also dying of embarrassment.
"You gonna stand there or actually get in the water?" Holt asks, and there's amusement in his voice, that almost-smile tugging at his mouth.
"I'm strategizing my entry!"
"It's called jumping!"
"Some of us have technique, Finn! Some of us have grace!"
"You have neither of those things!" he yells back, and a few teenagers nearby crack up.
Holt's mouth does his usual twitch smile thing. "You coming?"
"Right behind you."
He wades in, water rising to his hips, then his chest, and then he ducks under completely. When he comes up, his hair's slicked back, water streaming off his shoulders, and there's this ease in his expression I've never seen before. Relaxed. Almost peaceful.
I take a running start and launch myself off the rock. The cold hits me—shocking, perfect, knocking the breath from my lungs and replacing it with ice. Everything goes dark andfreezing and I kick toward the light, break the surface gasping and yelping and possibly cursing.
"Oh my God, it's freezing!"
Finn swims over, looking absolutely thrilled by my suffering. "Isn't it perfect?"
"It's—" I duck under again, letting the cold soak into my overheated skin, into my bones, shocking every nerve ending awake. When I surface, I'm grinning. "Okay, yeah, it's perfect. It's so perfect I might actually cry."
"Beautiful," Finn says, wiping an imaginary tear. "This is why I brought you here. For this exact moment of realization."
Holt's watching us with that quiet amusement he does, and Finn takes that as a challenge. He scoops a handful of water and flings it directly at me.
"Oh, you're dead." I retaliate immediately, splashing back, and within seconds it's absolute mayhem—me and Finn in a full water war, shouting and laughing and trying to dunk each other while Holt watches from a safe distance.
"Holt!" I gasp between splashes, water in my eyes, hair plastered to my face. "Help me!"
"I'm neutral."
"NEUTRAL?" Finn and I yell in unison, turning on him as a united front.
"Switzerland of swimming holes," he says, but I catch it—the smile pulling at his mouth, the way he looks lighter than usual. Not just tolerating us. Enjoying us.
