“Okay, this is magical,” she says, hauling herself up onto the rocky beach and stretching her arms overhead. “Do you think it’s haunted?”
“Why would you say that?” I frown as I climb out after her, way less gracefully. “You say the most random shit.”
“Duh.” She gestures wildly around her. “Look at this place! No one is here. That old tree over there that definitely has cursed vibes—creepy AF. Dude, there’s an outhouse.”
“Just because no one is here doesn’t make it haunted. It’s nine in the morning.”
Annabelle is already removing her shoes. Tosses them to higher ground. Pulls off her T-shirt to reveal the sports bra underneath. Wades into the water.
“You coming?” She is almost waist deep, arms hanging at her sides as she smiles over at me—unaware of the way the sun kisses her bare shoulders—and I’m toast.
“I don’t have swim trunks.”
She spins in a little circle, water rippling around her. “So?”
I arch a brow. “What happens when they get soaked and leave absolutely nothing to the imagination?”
Annabelle doesn’t miss a beat. “Then you’ll finally contribute something valuable to this trip.”
I blink.
She winks.
“Jesus,” I say. “I don’t even know how to respond to that.”
She shrugs, grinning. “You’re welcome?”
This girl.She’s relentless.
“Now get your ass in the water.”
Chapter 13
Annabelle
His feet hit the water with a splash, followed by a very manly hiss. He freezes like the lake just threatened his masculinity.
“Why is this water colder than I expected? It feels like the Polar Plunge,” he says through clenched teeth, inching forward like he’s wading into lava.
What a wuss. The water is cool, but what does he expect, given that it’s fall?
“Summer is over, you poor baby,” I call out, smirking. I wander a little closer to the shoreline, one hand perched sassily on my hip. “Do you need a sweater?”
Sarcasm is my defense mechanism. Like, aggressively so. I should probably knock it off, but my nerves are doing a dance in my stomach, and I don’t know what else to do with my hands except flap them. It’s almost as if I don’t know how to be serious in moments like this—when I’m teetering on the edge of what feels intimate.
I shouldn’t be nervous. We’re just two people hanging out. Talking. Doing lake stuff!
Also: He looks good all flustered.
Like—good enough to eat.
He wades deeper, until the water kisses his waist, his jaw tightening with every step. I watch shamelessly. What? The man is built like anoutdoorsy Greek god; my very own lumberjack with his broad shoulders and thick hair.
And yes, he’s 90 percent emotionally constipated. But—
He turns his head, catching me flat out ogling. Crap.
“You taking notes over there?” he asks, brow raised, smirk fully activated. “Because you’re staringrealhard.”
