I turn my back to her, water still streaming down my chest. “You’ve got thirty seconds before I start checking the perimeter again.”
Her laugh is sharp but genuine. Fabric rustles behind me. “So much for privacy in the apocalypse.”
I scan the treeline. “Thirty…twenty-nine…”
A splash interrupts my count, followed by a gasped “Fuck!” that makes me spin around.
Dakota stands waist-deep in the lake, arms wrapped around herself, wearing only her underwear. Her hair clings to her neck, water droplets sliding down her collarbone.
“Cold?” I smirk.
“N-no shit.” Her teeth chatter. “You c-could’ve warned me.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
She splashes water in my direction.
I cock my head. “Keep that up, and I’ll come in there.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
Oh, but I would.
Because even surrounded by the walking dead, all I can think about is how her lips might taste, how her body would feel against mine. And what scares me most is that I don’t want to stop it, whatever this is.
TWENTY-THREE
DAKOTA
The water laps cold against my bare skin, goosebumps rising despite the heat blooming in my chest. His eyes darken as he watches me, and even though I’m still angry, I splash him again, harder this time.
“You asked for it.” Julien lunges into the lake, water exploding around him as he charges toward me.
I shriek and scramble backward, feet slipping on the smooth stones beneath. The water slows me down, dragging against my legs as I twist away from his reaching hands.
“Running away?” He’s grinning, circling me like I’m prey. Water streams down his chest, catching in the hollow of his collarbone, creating paths I want to follow with my fingers.
I flick more water at him, hitting his face. “Tactical retreat.”
He wipes water from his eyes and lunges again. This time, his fingertips graze my waist. I spin away, laughing despite myself. He moves faster than I expect, one arm snaking around my middle from behind, pulling me against him.
And everythings stop.
His lips graze my ear, his voice a low, husky whisper. “Got you.”
I breathe hard, not daring to move.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, losing his playful edge. “About the cottage. About not telling you.”
I’m still mad. I have to be mad.
I’m still?—
I turn in his arms, needing to see his face. “Are you?”
His face is inches from mine, water droplets clinging to his dark lashes. The hard lines I’ve grown accustomed to have softened, replaced by something that makes my heart skip. The stubble along his jaw has grown thicker, casting shadows that accentuate the curve of his mouth.
“Yes.” His eyes—God, those eyes—hold mine without flinching. “I should have told you. Should’ve—” His fingers flex against my waist. “I’m shit at this.”
