Page 48 of The Summer We Lie

"He can always do it as a hobby," Dom offers thoughtfully. "Sometimes when you do what you love for work, it takes the joy out of it."

"Yeah, I guess so," I murmur, swimming away slightly to let the cool water wash over my heated skin. But even here, surrounded by this natural wonder, I can't escape the electric current running between Dom and me. My body still hums with anticipation for what he promised on the jet ski, what I've agreed to. Each time Harper smiles innocently at me, guilt flickers at the edges of my consciousness, a shadow threatening the sunshine of this perfect day.

We end up spending nearly an hour swimming around the cave, exploring every hidden alcove and shadow-dappled corner. Harper discovers a natural ledge where we can sit half-submerged, the cool water lapping at our waists, and we perch there while Dom floats lazily nearby. The cave transforms our voices into something magical - our laughter bounces off the stone walls, echoing and multiplying until it feels like we're surrounded by dozens of happy ghosts. Somehow, this symphony of sound washes away some of the tension from earlier—not completely, but enough that the invisible band around my chest loosens and I can breathe deeper.

When we finally emerge from the cave, squinting in the bright sunlight, we devote another hour to racing across the ocean on the jet skis. Harper's competitive nature blazes to life as she challenges us to impromptu races, her vibrant red hair streaming behind her like a victory pennant each time she zooms past the finish line. Dom allows me to drive again, but this time he maintains a respectful distance, his hands resting lightly on my hips purely for stability. Despite this newfound restraint, every point of contact between us pulses with electricity, a silent but persistent reminder of what awaits us later.

Back at the beach house, Dom disappears inside to fetch waters while Harper and I spread our towels across the warm sand. What follows feels like something from someone else's life—hours melting away as we alternate between sprawling on our towels, deep in conversation, and frolicking in the crystalline water. The magnetic pull between Dom and me never fully dissipates—how could it when every accidental brush of his fingers against my shoulder or hip ignites a wildfire beneath my skin?—but something fundamental shifts between us. We're actually getting to know each other, peeling back layers to discover the real people beneath the initial attraction.

I discover that Dom sketches intricate buildings when insomnia grips him, that he perfected the art of omelet-making because Harper went through an obsessive breakfast-for-dinner phase at ten. Harper shares mortifying childhood stories that make him groan and bury his face in his hands, while I tell them about Justin's passionate dinosaur obsession that never faded with age. It feels strangely normal, even comfortable—just three people basking in the glory of a perfect summer day, as if the undercurrent of desire and secrets isn't flowing beneath every word and glance.

After our latest plunge into the refreshing water, I collapse dramatically onto my towel, limbs splayed out like I'm making a sand angel.

"I'm exhausted," I groan, feeling the delicious burn of well-used muscles settling into my body.

"Me too," Harper sighs beside me, methodically wringing salty water from her copper hair.

Dom towers over us, somehow looking impeccably put-together despite spending hours in salt water and sun. "We should go shower if we want to go out for dinner."

Harper shields her eyes against the blinding sunlight to look up at him. "What time is it anyway?"

"Probably about two," he replies. "That will give us a few hours to shower, relax, and then get ready for dinner."

"Sounds good to me," I mumble, already fantasizing about how heavenly a cool shower will feel against my sun-scorched skin.

"Let's go relax," Harper agrees with a contented sigh.

We trudge back up to the house, fine grains of sand clinging stubbornly to our feet and calves despite our attempts to brush them off. Once inside the blessedly air-conditioned space, we scatter in different directions—Harper disappears into her room, Dom heads to the master suite, and I make a beeline for my bathroom. I turn the shower dial to cool before peeling off my salt-stiffened bikini, which feels like it's been permanently fused to my skin. I drape the damp swimsuit carefully over the shower rod and step inside, releasing an involuntary moan of pleasure as the refreshing water cascades over my overheated body.

I meticulously rinse every grain of sand from my skin—it's amazing how the stuff manages to infiltrate places I didn't even realize could collect sand. When I'm confident I'm sand-free, I wash my hair thoroughly, applying conditioner and letting it work its magic while I carefully shave my legs and bikini area. Getting waxed is literally the only beauty treatment I consistently splurge on, and I'm definitely overdue. Mental note: ask Harper if she knows a good place nearby.

After finishing my shaving ritual and rinsing the conditioner from my hair, I grab my loofah and squirt a generous amount of my favorite plumeria-scented body wash onto it. The tropical fragrance immediately fills the steamy bathroom, transporting me to some exotic island paradise as I scrub away the last traces of salt and sunscreen.

When I've thoroughly cleansed every inch, I rinse off and shut off the water, reaching for one of the impossibly fluffy towels stacked nearby. I follow my shower with matching plumeria lotion, methodically massaging it into my sun-kissed skin. Wrapped securely in the towel like a protective cocoon, I pad into the bedroom and collapse onto the downy bed, allowing myself to melt into the mattress. My mind drifts lazily between vivid memories of today's adventures and nervous anticipation of what tonight might bring.

Chapter Twenty-One

Skye

I stretch, luxuriating in the clean sheets and comfortable mattress. The gentle breeze from the ceiling fan caresses my damp skin, creating a soothing rhythm that lulls me into that hazy, delicious space between wakefulness and sleep. My muscles feel pleasantly relaxed, my mind drifting aimlessly as I sink deeper into the plush comfort beneath me. The soft cotton sheets feel like a gentle embrace against my freshly showered skin. I'm so comfortable I've almost surrendered completely to sleep when a knock on my door reverberates through the peaceful stillness of the room.

"Come in," I say automatically, my voice slightly muffled against the pillow, expecting Harper with one of her spontaneous fashion consultations.

The door opens with a soft creak. "Hey, I thought you could use some water."

Dom's deep, resonant voice fills the room like thunder in an empty valley, and I jump up with a startled gasp, clutching my towel against my chest as if it might somehow shield me from his intense gaze. "Shit!"

"Sorry. You said come in." His eyes widen slightly in surprise before darkening visibly as they sweep across my barely-covered form, lingering on the edges of the towel where it meets my skin. The intensity of his stare makes me feel both exposed and desired simultaneously. "I thought..."

I stutter helplessly, heat flooding my cheeks, "I thought it was Harper." My heart hammers against my ribs so forcefully I'm certain he must be able to see it.

With trembling legs, I stand and approach him, painfully conscious of each step, each breath. I take the water with one hand while the other desperately clutches at my towel, my knuckles turning white with the effort. "Thank you," I manage to whisper, acutely aware of the fact that I'm almost completely naked.

"You're welcome," he says, his voice dropping to a register that seems to vibrate through my entire body, but he makes no attempt to move or look away. His presence fills the doorway, commanding and unmovable.

I notice now that he's dressed impeccably in black slacks and a crisp white dress shirt, the top two buttons undone to reveal a tantalizing glimpse of tanned skin. He looks so impossibly handsome—like something conjured from my most forbidden fantasies—that I can barely draw breath. And fuck, he smells so good—some complex masculine scent with notes of sandalwood and something darker, richer that makes my head swim and my knees weaken. The scent envelops me, making it impossible to think clearly.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he says in a low, deep voice that resonates through my entire being, awakening parts of me I didn't know existed. The intensity of his gaze makes me feel as though I might do anything he asks, anything at all. I'd drop to my knees and worship at his feet if he commanded it in that voice while looking this devastatingly perfect.