Callaway exhales a curse under his breath.Monty doesn’t say a word—but his silence feels like an earthquake.
Both of them go still.
I glance over my shoulder.“What?It’s not like we haven’t done this before.”
Callaway’s throat works.“Nothing.”He shrugs.“We could go find your swimming suit.”
It’s impossible not to laugh.A snort slips out of me before I can stop it.“Yeah, let me know how that goes.It’s either in one of the boxes they shipped or the pile of laundry I’ve been heroically ignoring.”
Monty’s jaw clenches so hard it could cut stone.He looks away—like I’ve scorched him.Like he needs to stare at anything that isn’t my bare thighs.
Callaway doesn’t look away.His gaze drags over every inch of me like he’s memorizing the way I breathe.Gray sweatpants hang low on his hips, doing absolutely nothing to hide the way he’s getting hard—thick and unmistakable, stretching the fabric like he’s aching for me to notice.
“You two are acting like I haven’t been half-naked in front of you before,” I say, trying to shake off the tension coiling between us like it doesn’t belong.
“That’s not the issue,” Callaway says, eyes narrowing.
I tip my chin.“Then what is?”
Monty doesn’t blink.His voice is low, dangerous in how calm it tries to be.“You’re ...cold.”
That’s the excuse?
I blink once.Then laugh so hard it bounces off the water’s surface like an insult.“Cold?”I repeat, letting the absurdity hang between us.“Are you serious?I’m not cold,” I say, taking a step back into the shallow end, the water lapping at my thighs.“But thank you for pretending this is about my comfort and not your complete lack of self-control.”
Monty’s eyes snap to mine, his control visibly cracking, heat leaking out.Callaway shifts beside him, the air around him practically vibrating.
I dive.
Water welcomes me like an old friend.Familiar.Honest.It doesn’t care that I’m terrified or confused or pretending I know what I’m doing with this love—this us.It doesn’t care that I’m pregnant and hormonal and aching in ways I can’t talk about without crying.
Here, I can just move.
I slice through the water while I forget about the curve of Callaway’s mouth when he’s teasing.The low rumble of Monty’s voice when he reads instructions aloud because he doesn’t trust anyone else to follow them correctly.
I forget that this—this thing between us—isn’t safe.
But when I surface, they’re still watching me.
Callaway’s hands are shoved deep in his pockets like they might keep him from doing something reckless.But he’s hard—his body already betraying him.His sweatpants are a goddamn cry for help.And Monty—Monty looks like he’s holding himself together with threadbare restraint, arms folded, jaw locked, eyes dark with heat he’ll pretend he doesn’t feel.
“The pool is warm.What is it, seventy-five degrees?”I ask, breathless, pushing wet hair back from my face.
“As the doctor recommended,” Monty replies.Clipped.Controlled.So Monty.
“Perfect.”I tread water.
Since I have something important to say, I begin.
“I spoke to the owner of Transcend,” I say, louder than I need to.
Callaway tilts his head.“Yeah?”
“He said we might be a good fit.I’ll help with a documentary—ongoing, something they want continuity for.If it works, I’ll stay on.Freelance.No commitment unless I want one.”
Monty jumps in like I knew he would.“You sent your portfolio—what else do they need to see?”
“More than some reels and my scripts,” I snap, and then soften.“It’s a test.If I match their style, great.If not, there are other projects they need me to work on.I really want to do this.”
