Her breath tickles my ear. “I know.” Her thighs tighten at my sides as she shifts.
I bare my teeth at my brother, my eyes narrowing as I walk backward through the water. Droplets cascade down my chest with each step.
“C'mon, Cruzie,” I say, the childhood nickname sliding out like a knife. “If you want her, come and get her.”
Cruz's jaw tightens, a muscle flickering beneath his stubbled cheek. His gaze holds mine for three heartbeats before he turns his head, water spraying from his hair. “Who wants to play a fucking game?” he calls, voice carrying across the pool.
The pool fills with bodies, people crowding around the edges to watch.
The game is simple: chicken, just like we’ve always played since we were kids. Except we’re not kids anymore, and Bell’s hands gripping my scalp aren’t shy about digging in.
Not that she ever was.
Cruz has some blonde in a pink bikini on his shoulders. Her manicured nails dig into his scalp, but he doesn't seem to notice or care. His eyes are locked on us, jaw tight, nostrils flared.
Nah, my brother is playing a different game entirely as he wades closer, water rippling around his chest in circles, the pool lights casting shadows across the hollows of his face.
We play like our lives depend on it. Bellamy's competitive streak blazes hot—her thighs tightening around my neck when she nearly topples, her triumphant laugh cutting through the splashing chaos. But it's nothing compared to the electric current running between Cruz and me.
In the end, Bellamy lunges forward with a warrior's cry, her fingers tangled with the blonde's as they grapple mid-air. The girl in pink teeters backward, mouth open in a perfect O of surprise, her free arm windmilling. Not even Cruz can stop momentum and gravity. They crash into the water with a splash that sends waves slapping against the pool's edge, and the crowd cheers.
She leans to the side and I look toward her, her face hovering inches from mine. Her wet hair falls around us like a curtain, dripping cool rivulets down my temples. All I can make out is her wide grin, her bottom lip fuller than the top, dimple winking from her right cheek.
“Your brother’s gonna be so mad we beat him,” she says in a sing-song voice.
“He’ll live,” I murmur, my lips a hair away from hers.
God, do I want to fucking kiss her.
“How about that dessert?” She doesn’t move away, but she doesn’t move closer either. The corner of her lip catches between her teeth for just a heartbeat before releasing, leaving the smallest indentation behind.
29
BELLAMY
The dining roomfeels like a secret.
The party noise dulls the moment we cross the threshold—bass still pulsing through the walls like a heartbeat, laughter bleeding down the hallway—but in here it's quieter, the chandelier dimmed to a honey glow that catches on the polished mahogany table. The air smells faintly of balsam fir and sweet gardenia, untouched by the sweat and spilled drinks of the crowd outside.
“No chairs.” His mouth curves up at one corner, slow and knowing, his eyes darkening to the color of the ocean at night in the low light. He shifts his weight, one shoulder leaning against the doorframe as he surveys the empty space around the table, like this is exactly the outcome he was hoping for when he suggested we slip away for dessert.
“Guess we improvise,” he says, voice dropping to that rough-velvet tone that always seems to vibrate directly against my skin.
I step toward the table, letting my fingers curl over the edge. I glance down, tracing the faint seam in the wood with my thumb, and something loosens in my chest.
“God,” I murmur before I can stop myself. “This hasn’t changed at all.”
Gage stills for a beat. Then his mouth curves, slow and familiar. “Yeah. Coco doesn’t like change.”
I huff a quiet laugh. My eyes drift around the room again. The sideboard against the wall, the framed photos I can’t quite make out from here, the faint scuff near the base of the table leg that’s definitely still there.
A smile tugs at my mouth. “Remember when you and Cruz threw that party in here?”
He groans immediately, dragging a hand down his face. “Jesus. Don’t.”
I grin. “The one where some asshole stood on the table and it collapsed?”
“It did not collapse,” he protests. “One leg cracked.”
