Chapter 5
WYATT
THE BOWRIDER TEARS ACROSS THE lake, its hull slapping against the water. Blake gives it more gas, and the roar of the engine echoes off the tree-lined shoreline, white sheets of spray exploding on either side of the boat.
Normally, I would love it. The fine mist soaking my face, the blue sky above us and blue water below us. Unfortunately, the person driving the boat is a lunatic.
“Slow down,” I shout at Blake.
She looks over at me, her ponytail whipping in the wind, blue eyes gleaming with excitement.
“No,” she shouts back.
Oh my God. Maybe her father was right to recruit me. Why didn’t I know that Blake Logan was a daredevil? This is the kind of irresponsible shit my buddies and I would pull. And I don’t like being made to be the adult in the equation.
I clutch the side rail as the bow bounces from each hard slice through the choppy water.
“Goddamn it, Logan!”
She laughs harder as Lake Tahoe unfurls in a wild blur around us. Just as I’m about to go over there and forcibly yank her out of the pilot seat, she eases up on the throttle, and we begin to slow. The wind dies and I can hear my own thoughts again. Then she cuts the throttle entirely and shifts into neutral. Fucking finally.
“Pleased with yourself?” I ask.
She turns to grin at me. Her hair is a tangled mess, and I watch with fascination I hate feeling as she releases it from the ponytail and finger combs it until it’s cascading over one shoulder.
With a happy sigh, she says, “It’s so nice driving the boat without my father watching from the dock with a pair of binoculars.”
I snicker. Of all my dad’s friends, John Logan is the most entertaining, I’ll give him that. Tucker is too nice, all sugary sweet. And Dean has that confidence that gets exhausting sometimes. Like, dude, can you stop being so charming? He’s not even trying; it’s just his personality.
Logan is the hilarious one. A solid, laid-back presence, always there when you need him. If he loves you, he’s quick to show it. He wears his heart on his sleeve, unlike his daughter, this wild-haired brunette with the cautious eyes. Growing up, I always wondered what Blake was hiding behind that unreadable gaze. It intrigued me, even as a kid.
As an adult, it’s a much headier thought, because not only do I want to know all her secrets, but I also want to make those eyes gleam. I want them raw and unguarded. I want to see how dark and heavy-lidded they get when she’s having an orgasm.
Fuck. I bet her eyes look so pretty when she’s coming.
“You want to anchor here?” She’s already kicking off her sandals.
I cough, snapping out of my inappropriate thoughts. “Sure.”
I grab the rope coil and move to the bow to drop the anchor. It hits the water with a satisfying splash, the line hissing through my fingers until finally tugging tight. A sense of peace washes over me as the boat bobs in place while the sun high above us ripples over the water. It’s creating a mesmerizing effect. Like gold coins scattered across the lake.
I tuck the image away. It’s a nice one. Maybe it belongs in a song.
With the sun beating down on my head, I strip off my shirt and toss it aside. Blake unzips her cropped hoodie, leaving her in a pink bikini top and tiny denim shorts that barely cover her ass.
“I’m gonna sunbathe for a while,” she says, popping open the button of her shorts while I pretend not to notice.
I walk barefoot to the back of the boat, where I haphazardly dropped my guitar on the padded seat. Oh, Betty. My old girl. This guitar’s been through a lot. She’s no longer glossy but a dull brown now. A couple of the tuning pegs are bent, and there’s a deep scratch on the side of her neck.
“You sure your precious guitar should be on board?” Blake mocks. “Aren’t you worried? You know, when the rogue wave hits.”
“Nah. Betty’s the boat guitar. She knows the risks.”
“Your boat guitar is named Betty? Also, what is a boat guitar?”
“It’s a guitar I’m okay losing. If she falls overboard, I’ll survive. I got her for twenty bucks at a secondhand shop. What, you think I’d bring one of my real guitars out here?”
“I’m not versed in your guitar transporting habits, Wyatt.”
