His gaze flicked up to mine, and a smile spread, as blindinglybright as the sun across the water. “Yes, Jordan,” he said. “Yes, I like it.”
I had to turn away to hide the strength of my smile.
With the sun blazing today, the water felt cold against our baked skin, and I shivered at each sensitive point. Usually, I made it in before Ethan, but this time he ran before me, submerging in a clean, quick dive. He stayed low, only his head above the water. “Scared?” he asked.
I took another step forward, the sea level rising against my rib cage. “I’ll get in when I get in.”
“Red junglefowl,” he taunted. “Infant human being.”
I sluiced my arm along the top of the water, sending a wave in his direction.
He dove under and grabbed my legs, pulling me off balance.
“Noo!” My cry ended quickly as I dropped beneath the waves. I sputtered to the surface, wiping salt water out of my eyes. “Ethan!”
He grinned. “Wanted to make sure you were awake.”
If he wanted war, I’d give him war. I tried to kick him, but the water slowed me, so I settled for throwing my body at his, tackling him underwater. I sank too, but it was worth it.
We were a tangle of wet limbs and false innocence, as though the act of wrestling absolved us from agency, as though it wasn’t our intention for our slick arms to rub against each other, for our hands to glance off each other’s waists and legs.
“Uncle,” I finally cried, “Mercy,” but more because I didn’t think I could keep myself from grabbing his face and pulling it to mine if we went on like this. We caught our breath, floatingunder the morning sun, the water lapping in my ears and muffling the world into a cocoon of sky and sea and thoughts of Ethan Barbanel.
We unfurled our towels and dropped onto them. I traced a circle in the sand with my forefinger, and then the question burst out of me, much as I tried to suppress it. “How was the rest of the party?”
“Good.”
“Did you stay long?”
He gave me an amused look. “Not very.”
Great, I’d showed my hand. “Hmph,” I said, lying down on my towel. I could see him smiling out of the corner of my eye.
He let it go, thank god. “What’s next in Operation Get Your Dad and Your Boss to Fall in Love?”
“That’s a terrible name,” I said. “The acronym would be like…”
We slowly worked it out: OGYDYBFL, which I pronounced “oh-guy-dye-biffle.” “I can’t even say it.”
“O-gy-dy-bi-fel,” Ethan said carefully, and then we were saying it, stumbling over the syllables and laughing.
“I was thinking,” I said, “isn’t your grandmother doing one of those garden tours?”
Nantucket had a garden festival, which sounded like it dropped out of a quaint village on a British TV show. One weekend every July, the island celebrated its gardens and gardeners. Talks were given by horticulturalists, and—more importantly, in my mind—tours were given of gardens, including the one at Golden Doors.
“Oh, yeah.” Ethan looked surprised, like I’d surfaced something previously buried in his brain. “You gonna invite them both?”
“Seems like a good next step. Right now I’m not trying to create a romantic vibe or anything, I just want them in the same space so they can see if they like each other. I read this article about how friendships are most easily formed by repeated, unplanned occurrences, and I figure romance is the same.”
His lips twitched. “But this isn’t unplanned.”
“But they think it is.”
“Manipulative.”
“Everyone’s manipulative. At least I’m honest about it.”
“Withme.”
