One, Gavin’s not here. Two, Brady wants to fly.
Three, Travis can’t take him. Four, there is nowhere to cry.
She heaved a breath and turned, ready to step off the dock to the beach. The mountain beaches weren’t the ocean kind with small, pebbled sand that stuck to your skin. These were muddy beaches with rocks. Lots and lots of rocks.
Rocks and the pull of the water. She looked back at the lake.
Screw it.
She pulled her top over her head, revealing a black tank top underneath.
“What exactly are you doing?” Travis asked. “My mother could come around that corner at any second.”
Instinct seemed to kick in and he did a scan of the beach and trail, apparently to be sure his mother wasn’t going to pop out from behind a juniper tree. He could chill. She wouldn’t take off all her clothes.
“I’m going swimming.” Rachel pulled off her shoes, setting them beside her shirt. “I’m having fun. Because, apparently, I take shit too seriously.”
And the water screamed for her to let it soothe the ache of motherhood that rooted so deep she thought it would pull her under.
…
TRAVIS
Fucking hell, was this the moment they were going to deal with that?
“You can’t skinny-dip in the middle of the day.” Travis did a wide wave with his arm. “There are boats out here.”
Also, his mother’s fake cat would have a whole basket full of kittens. Hell, if he had a fake cat, she would probably have kittens, too.
Rachel gave a sound that sounded like pshaw. “Oh, does me having fun bother you? Make you uncomfortable?”
She frowned and lines around her eyes, that he’d never noticed before, deepened. When’d she get those? And why did she have frowny lines instead of laugh lines? He blamed Gavin.
“Rachel, this is enough.” Before he could ask her nicely to reconsider, she turned and did another scan of the water.
“How deep is this?”
Uh. “Deep enough for a speedboat.”
They hadn’t moved the family boats over yet. Actually, he’d need to chat with the head of maintenance to find out why.
Still wearing only her shorts and the tank top, she dove into the lake like she was an Olympic swimmer.
Her form was spot-on and she hit the water with her freestyle stroke ready to go.
Travis gulped.
Then he turned back toward the trail. Then he turned back toward the water. Trail. Water. Trail. Water.
He decided he should probably—as a southern gentleman—ensure that she did not drown.
“Are you coming in?” She turned, treading water several lengths from the edge of the dock.
He shoved his hands onto his hips. “I am not.”
Her blond hair hung around her shoulders, meeting at the waterline to fan around her. Somehow her pink lipstick was still intact.
Pink lipstick that probably tasted like sunshine. No. He could not think shit like that.
