“Oof.” Annabelle winces. “Points for enthusiasm.”
“Don’t patronize me.”
“I’m not!” She holds up her hands in mock surrender, laughing. “Look, if it makes you feel better, you’re way more rugged than the guys I usually hang out with. They wouldn’t know which end of an axe to hold.”
She is so full of shit. “You’re buttering me up so I don’t toss you in the lake later, right?”
Her grin is pure sunshine. “You would toss me into the lake?”
Abso-fucking-lutely.
She steps closer, gesturing at my grip. “Let me show you.”
“Why do I feel like you’re about to destroy what’s left of my manhood?”
“Because I am,” she teases, arms going around me as if I were a toddler signed up for T-ball. “Relax your shoulders. Widen your stance. No, wider.”
“Wider? This is as wide as it gets!”
“Stop whining, I’m trying to keep you from splitting your foot open.”
Her hands brush my arms as she adjusts my elbows. Electricity zings through me, sharp and impossible to ignore, and I briefly wonder if she feels it, too, or if I’m just horned up because I’ve been holed up in the middle of nowhere—and haven’t banged for weeks.
No hookups while my knee is healing.
“Now, swing,” Little Miss Bossy Pants tells me.
I swing. And this time, the log cracks right down the middle.
Annabelle throws both arms in the air as if I just won an Olympic gold, whooping into the wind. “Look at you! You did it!”
I am a child who needs praise. I beam at her. “I’m a fast learner.”
She nods, crossing her arms. “Obviously you had a good teacher.”
“Uh-huh, guess I don’t have to chuck her in the water now.” I laugh. “Remind me to put you on the payroll.”
Annabelle studies me a few seconds before sighing. “Actually, you know what? I think I’ll take a break from teaching cavemen and get a tan.”
My brow arches. “A tan?”
She shrugs, already sliding off her hoodie to reveal a strappy little bikini top that makes my brain mush. “The lake’s right there, the sun’s out—why not?”
I clear my throat, gaze absolutely not lingering on the swell of cleavage peeking over her bright-pink top. “You know you’ll scare the fish away, right?”
She rolls her eyes. “Try not to chop your foot off while I’m gone.”
Annabelle saunters off down the lawn toward the dock, rearranging the deck chairs and moving the large umbrella stand. Spreads out a towel, rolls another one to use as a pillow, and—God help me—pushes her leggings down.
I pretend not to watch. But ...
I have a working set of eyes, and the suit is bright pink, two bows tied at her hips, a second one behind her neck, and I’m99percent sure if she sneezes too hard, the whole thing is coming off.
She adjusts the straps, oblivious to the war waging in my brain, then plops down to rub sunscreen over her shoulders. I swear I can hear her humming.
“Hey,” I call after several seconds of stupidly ogling her. “You’re seriously going to lie there while I do all the work?”
Her hand lifts. Waves.
