“Yes.”
I hated how good he was at this. How my pulse jumped every time his knee brushed mine.
“Malibu,” he murmured, almost under his breath.
“Hmm?”
“Go swim.”
“You go swim.”
Before either of us could say a word, we were shoved off the dock. Dalton at some point had climbed back onto it and used the distraction to creep up behind us.
Jackson surfaced with a curse then huffed something that might have been a laugh, then immediately looked horrified with himself for doing it.
God. He was stupidly cute. This time when he glanced at me, I wasn’t able to hold back my smile. Dalton stood in the dock triumphantly. We ignored him.
I swam backward farther into the lake, holding Jackson’s gaze.
“Come on, Morgan,” I teased. “Or are you scared of a little cold water?”
He splashed me, and I shrieked as freezing water exploded over me.
Dalton cheered. Mac yelled at him for almost knocking the dock loose. Maria cackled like a gremlin.
I glared at Jackson. Then I dove. Straight at him. When I surfaced inches away, he went perfectly still. We were almost nose to nose.
I pushed my wet hair back. “I grew up on the water. I got moves you don’t even know.”
He swallowed.
Then—voice low, almost strangled—said: “Is that so?”
And just like that, I felt my cheeks go as red as my swimsuit.
The lake water was cold enough to make my bones file complaints with HR, but after the first shock, it felt good—clean, alive, like something I hadn’t felt since California. Maria eventually perched on the lower dock steps, letting the water lap at her legs. Dalton dragged Diego away from her and the two of them got into a wrestling match in the water. Mac joined in, and Dalton did his best to drown his brother. Jackson did his usual routine—act like he wasn’t watching me, fail spectacularly, then pretend he had been looking at a tree the whole time.
The chaos eventually tapered off, and by late afternoon, the six of us drifted into the lazy warmth of the day like sleepy lizards. Maria and I sprawled out on towels near the waterline while the boys took turns roughhousing and occasionally “checking the firewood situation,” which I suspected was code for “let’s stand somewhere and secretly watch the girls.”
Maria nudged me with her elbow, eyes closed behind her sunglasses. “You know he keeps staring.”
“Please,” I said, pretending to be unbothered. “They stare because we’re the only women here and one of them is literally pregnant.”
She hummed, unimpressed. “Uh-huh. And the other one is wearing red.”
I smacked her with my towel.
A soft breeze combed through the trees. I glanced over my shoulder, watching Mac carry one of the coolers to the deckwhere Jackson was pulling off the cover of a massive silver grill. Everything felt warm and loud and alive. For the first time in a long time, Maria’s face didn’t look pinched. She was sun-drowsy and glowing, one hand idly resting on her stomach.
“You happy?” I asked quietly.
She didn’t open her eyes. “I forgot I could be.”
My throat tightened. “Good. You deserve this.”
She smiled, soft and vulnerable in a way that made me want to throw a rock at Jesse’s skull. By sunset, the grill had been conquered by Mac and Jackson—who turned out to cook like two dads hosting a Super Bowl party. The picnic table was a chaotic spread of burgers, chips, grilled corn, Dalton’s “secret sauce” (which Mac repeatedly warned everyonenotto eat), and a pitcher of sweet tea so sugary I felt my teeth vibrate.
Maria ate like she hadn’t seen food in four days, and Diego hovered so hard I thought he might cut her hot dog for her. Dalton told some horrific story about accidentally eating a bug in practice last season.
