Page 32 of The Summer We Lie

"Yeah, I'll get some in a minute," I say, taking a long pull from my beer instead, the cold liquid doing nothing to cool the heat under my skin.

Without another word, Skye gets up and walks to the grill with purpose in her step. I watch, transfixed, as she grabs a plate and starts filling it with food—not just a token amount, but a proper meal with careful attention to arrangement. She comes up behind me, so close her bare leg brushes against my hand resting on my thigh. Her skin is silky smooth against my knuckles, and I have to resist the overwhelming urge to move my fingers against it, to trail them upward and see if all of her feels as soft as this small patch of sun-warmed skin.

She sets the plate down in front of me with careful precision, then grabs silverware, placing it exactly where it should be beside the food. She grabs a napkin from the stack in the center of the table and sets it beside my plate, folding it neatly first. I just watch in stunned silence as she takes care of me with an effortless attention to detail, all the while never moving her leg away from where it touches my hand, that point of contact burning like a brand.

When she finishes and walks back to her seat, I can't help but follow the hypnotic sway of her ass with my eyes. Is she wearing underwear under those tiny shorts? There's too much natural movement, too much jiggle for her to have panties on. The thought makes me grip my beer bottle tighter.

Someone clears their throat loudly, and I snap out of my trance. Looking around, I see Harper is deep in conversation with Logan, but Ethan is watching me watch her, his expression knowing and amused. Caught. Fuck.

"Thank you," I say to Skye, trying desperately to regain my composure and sound normal.

"You're welcome," she replies simply, as though her small act of consideration hasn't completely thrown me. "You cooked. You shouldn't have to serve yourself, and you should eat before your food gets cold."

I can't help but smile, something warm and unfamiliar expanding in my chest. Nobody ever thinks about my needs but me. Not for years.

"Thanks," I say again, the word inadequate.

She smiles at me then, a real smile that lights up her entire face and reaches her eyes, transforming her from pretty to breathtaking. "You said that already." Then she brings her fork to her mouth and takes a bite of steak, her lips closing around it in a way that makes me shift uncomfortably in my seat, my jeans suddenly too tight.

I force myself to look down at my plate and start eating mechanically. The food tastes like nothing on my tongue. All I can focus on is the girl across the table, and the inexplicable, overwhelming need I have to make her mine in every possible way.

"The Pixies, huh?" Logan says, gesturing to Skye's shirt.

"Yeah," she says around a mouthful of food, covering her mouth politely with her hand.

"Aren't you a little too young to know about them?" he asks her.

"You know what they say about age, right?" She takes a drink of her beer, her throat working as she swallows, the delicate line of her neck catching the evening light in a way that makes me want to trace it with my fingertips.

"Nothing but a number?" Logan asks, leaning forward with that goddamn charming smile of his.

"Yep," she says with a smile that makes something twist in my gut, a hot flare of possessiveness I have no right to feel. "I like a lot of older music."

"What's your favorite song by them?" Ethan asks, joining their conversation, leaning closer to her than necessary. Too close. My fingers tighten imperceptibly around my fork.

"Oh! Oh! I know this one," Harper says, pointing her fork excitedly, her expression animated in that way that always reminds me of when she was little.

"Obviously 'Where Is My Mind,'" Skye answers Ethan. He nods approvingly, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes at how transparent my friend is being.

"That really is the best one," Logan says, inserting himself back into the conversation. Because of course he has to.

"I know," Skye says, her confidence endearing. "Harper likes them too," she adds, smiling at my daughter with genuine affection that softens something in me despite my irritation.

"No, I don't," Harper says with a laugh, the sound carrying across the table.

"Oh really?" Skye raises an eyebrow, the playful challenge in her voice drawing my attention completely. "Then why did I just get this shirt back from you after you stole it for months?"

"Because it's comfy," Harper says, not looking remotely guilty. "It's all perfectly worn."

"I know. It's my favorite shirt," Skye says, plucking at the fabric, drawing my eyes to where it clings to her chest. The soft cotton hugs curves that I shouldn't be noticing but can't seem to ignore. I force my gaze away, taking a deep pull from my beer.

"Fine, I'll leave it alone. But god, it's comfy," Harper says with that stubborn tone I know too well.

"So what's your favorite genre?" Logan asks, still monopolizing the conversation. I cut into my steak with more force than necessary, the knife scraping against the plate with a sound that makes Harper glance my way.

"I like most anything," Skye says with a shrug that somehow manages to be both casual and graceful.

"Correction," Harper interrupts. "Anything from the nineties or maybe early two-thousands. She's an old soul—just like you guys are old," she laughs, shooting me a playful look that tells me she's noticed my silence.