NATE ANDIAREthe only ones left lingering at the table after dinner. Pete and Tripp are on cleanup duty, and Linney is leading Mr. Lancolm down to the firepit, while Mom, Cooper, and Cara are down on the lawn, pacing around as they estimate how many wedding guests our backyard can reasonably hold.
I’m still frozen in my seat, trying to figure out what in the world just happened when my dad walks over. “Your mother says I need to stay here to entertain Russ,” he tells me, nodding his head in Mr. Lancolm’s direction. “I’ve got it all ready for you though. You okay to do the fireworks without me?”
“Sure, no problem.” Escaping to the lake alone is exactly what I need right now. And honestly, blowing a few things up might be the perfect catharsis.
“I can help,” Nate offers, rising from his chair.
“It’s okay.” I stand, collecting my plate and Nate’s empty one.
“Good man.” Dad slaps a large hand on Nate’s back. “Just dowhatever she tells you.” He pats Nate on the back and heads toward Pete and Tripp at the firepit.
“I don’t need any help.”
“You seem very capable,” he agrees, helping to clear off the table. “Can I not just want to play with explosives though?”
This gets a grin from me. “You’re welcome to come. It’s just that we set them off from the floating dock, so you’re going to have to get wet. But let me see if I can grab a suit from Coop.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says, trailing me in the kitchen and placing dishes beside the sink.
“Don’t you want to put on a bathing suit?” I ask.
“Don’t need one.” He pats his butt like it’s a prize-winning horse. “Performance fabric.”
“Right. Well, this is not performance fabric.” I gesture to my gingham Dôen set. “Let me change, and I’ll be right back.”
Nate is strapping the last bungee cord around the cooler when I return, and does a satisfying double take when he sees me in my bikini.
I smile.
Then he strips off his shirt, revealing toned pecs and a tight ripple of abs leading down into his shorts. My smile disappears into a flushed stutter.
Which is ridiculous. I live in LA, and I sell athleisure. I see tons of perfectly sculpted and tanned torsos, so I’m not sure why this one has such an effect on me. Maybe because Nate himself is so completely artless. Not the type of guy to buff up at the gym, obsessed with grooming, self-tanned and practically hairless like most of the guys I’ve dated. He’s built, but in a natural way, like he’s actually using his muscles to move heavy objects around for work. His tan is uneven, a line along his bicep from where his T-shirts hit, andfaint stripes along his feet from the Chacos he’s just kicked off. Soft-looking hair trails down a broad chest to a toned stomach, dipping into—
I swallow. “Right. Well, let’s get to it!”
I double-check that the fireworks cooler is carefully strapped to the inner tube, and we launch it off the edge of the lake. As I swim out, I’m careful not to get my hair wet. I should have at least one more day with this blowout, maybe two, if the gods of humidity and dry shampoo feel fit to grant me favor.
The water feels cool and amazing against my skin. I always love its silky texture, its minerally smell.
Even manning the inner tube, Nate beats me to the dock. He waits beside the ladder to let me climb up first. As I step up, I’m conscious of the fact that he has a perfect view of my bikini bottoms, and hope they are doing their job of hugging my butt just right. In my pageant days, we literally used a special kind of adhesive spray to keep our bathing suits in place—no one wants a wedgie during the swimsuit competition.
Nate follows, pulling the entire inner tube onto the dock with us. “So, fireworks,” he says, squatting down and shaking the water from his hair like a golden retriever. “How do we get them matching, but not matchy?”
I smile—he’s quoting me back to myself from the farmstand earlier. “That’s not my philosophy with fireworks, actually.” I unhook the bungee cord and kneel down to start arranging them by type.
“Enlighten me.”
“More is more.” Why do those words sound so naughty as soon as they’re out of my mouth?
He breaks into a wide smile as he sits down beside me. “I like it.” The lake laps softly on the dock as we work in companionablesilence. I’m carefully lining up red bottle rockets when Nate says, “Oh, before I forget.” He pulls out a thermos from the cooler. “Your dad made me pack this. Is it lighter fluid or something?”
“Lighter fluid?” I pause, a bottle rocket in my hand. “You really know nothing about fireworks, do you?”
He just shrugs good-naturedly. “Almost as much as I know about car engines.” He unscrews the top and sniffs. “This is straight tequila.”
“Dad’s margaritas,” I explain. “A Bennet family tradition.”
Nate takes a tentative sip, then grimaces. “We can’t drink this.”
