Chapter 9

Joey

 

I break through the brush and find Coen and Ella sitting in lawn chairs, their feet in a plastic kiddie pool that Shakespeare has practically been living in. They’re deep in a hushed conversation, and I wonder if it’s about us having to cancel installing the insulation today because Coen had to unexpectedly go back into work.

I walk over to where Hayden is a few feet away, checking on a box lined with aluminum foil.

“Whatchya doing?” I ask, ruffling his light-brown hair that has grown out enough to reveal his curls.

“Trying to make s’mores with the sun.” He sounds disappointed.

My eyebrows rise at the contraption he’s jerry-rigged and the opened s’more that hasn’t melted. “I bet it will still taste good.”

Hayden shrugs, and picks it up, taking a large bite. He nods. “Not bad.”

“Someone spray you with a garden hose?” Coen asks me.

I turn around and laugh, looking over my wet cargo shorts and T-shirt. “It got a little hot on my jog through the woods.”

My brother stares at me, waiting for a better excuse.

“We got invited to the Wallaces’ for dinner,” I continue. “All four of us. We’re supposed to head on over and just bring ourselves.”

Ella’s bright-blue eyes widen with panic. “Tonight?”

I nod. “Yup.”

“Like now?” Reflexively, she brushes a hand through her shoulder-length dark-brown hair.

I nod again. “Come on. We need a night away from takeout and Hot Pockets in the microwave.”

“Should we run to the store and grab dessert or some wine?” Ella looks to Coen.

My brother shrugs. “If they said to just bring ourselves, I think we’re okay.”

Ella’s eyes grow wide with disapproval. “We can’t just show up.”

Coen frowns. “Of course we can.”

“We would be failing every basic rule of etiquette by showing up empty-handed.”

“Forget etiquette,” Coen says, shaking his head.

Ella pulls her head back. It’s a look I’m realizing is universal with all females when we men say something they find stupid. Ironically, we rarely say things that are intended to make us sound or look stupid.

“Want me to earmuff Hayden?” I tease.

She turns to face me, her chin still pulled back and now tilted. In her eyes I’ve just crossed that line past stupid and straight into ridiculous. “No. He needs to hear this, too. Bringing something over isn’t just proper etiquette. It’s having good manners. It’s being polite. It’s showing your appreciation for them buying groceries, making you a meal, and cleaning up after you.” When I first met Ella, she looked about twenty. It shocked the hell out of me to learn she was twenty-seven, but she often offers advice like this that reminds me age is often misleading.

Coen looks to me. “Do you bring something when you’re invited over for dinner?”

“They call it supper here, and I will be going forward,” I tell him.

Ella nods. “There’s hope for you DeLuca boys after all.”

“Boys,” I scoff. “Hayden, get over here and flex with us. Let’s show your mom we’re no boys—we’re men.”

“I’m staying out of this one.” Hayden lifts his hands in surrender. The three of us have to muffle our laughs because he’s completely serious.

“You’re wise beyond your years,” I tell him.

“I’ve got it!” Ella stands. “We can bring over that ice cream and root beer we picked up for floats.”

“We’re walking,” I tell her.

“Well, we’d better walk fast. Let’s go get dressed.” She claps, and like that, they turn toward the RV and I move to the garage, climbing the stairs to the small apartment I’m staying in.

While showering, I picture Grace’s nails scratching layers of her skin off. Hear her screaming about something being on her. And recall the way Kennedy’s hands pinned her down.

I pull on a clean pair of jeans and the only shirt I brought with me that has a collar. My shoes are limited to work boots, sneakers, or flip-flops, so I slide my flip-flops on and head back down to the front yard, where Hayden’s kicking around a soccer ball.

Within seconds, Coen and Ella are out of the trailer, Coen carrying a paper grocery sack.

The pond is only a five-minute hike from their house, and the Wallaces’ isn’t much farther.

“Are we sure this is it?” Ella asks, reaching for Hayden’s hand as we draw closer.

“That’s definitely the car that hit me,” I say, pointing out Kennedy’s car. “See, it’s got a little of my truck’s paint still on the bumper.”

Coen reels around, his eyes bright. “You didn’t tell me it was someone you knew who hit your truck.”

“I barely know her.”

“Then why are we here?” Coen asks.

“I was being neighborly. You’re welcome.”

Coen’s chin tips, and I can hear the tirade of obscenities he’d say right now if Ella and Hayden weren’t mere feet away.

“Good evening!” A woman comes and stands on the porch, waving an arm. “Come on in!”

“You don’t even know who that is, do you?” Coen asks as he steps in line behind me.

“I’m guessing that’s her mom.”

“You like the librarian, don’t you?” Coen whispers.

“See, you do think she looks like a librarian.”

“I’ll pay you fifty bucks to call her that again tonight.” His dark eyes shine with humor.

“Don’t make me tell Ella what a punk ass you were as a kid.”

Coen connects his elbow with my ribs. “Good evening, Mrs. Wallace. It’s nice to see you again.”

It would figure Coen knows her. For the first time, I’m regretting not getting to know more of the residents when I spent so much time here.

“Oh please, call me Christine.” Her hair is darker than both of her daughters’, and she’s far shorter. But then she smiles, and I can see both of her daughters instantly. The curve of her lips is Grace, and the brightness in her eyes is Kennedy. “I’m so glad you were able to make it. Supper isn’t fancy, but it’s a family favorite.”

Years of my mom boxing my ears makes it impossible for me to call someone’s parent or grandparent anything other than their surname, but I don’t mention this as we walk in pairs up the porch steps and Mrs. Wallace opens the screen door. “Come on in.”

Inside, the air conditioner feels so good I nearly forget I’m not in the comfort of my own family. The walls are painted white; blue and white gingham couches face each other with a large brown recliner sitting at one end across from a large TV. The space looks comfortable with a southern charm, and welcoming—and nothing like Kennedy.

“Come on into the kitchen,” she says, leading us through a doorway and into a large white kitchen and dining room, where the scent of home-cooked food makes my stomach grumble.

“Wow, does it smell good,” I say.

Mrs. Wallace glows. Kennedy’s dad stands from where he’s seated at the table, a plaid shirt buttoned down his middle. He is no longer Tom, but Mr. Wallace.

“We’re glad you guys were able to make it on such short notice,” he says, approaching us with his hand extended. “It’s nice to see you both again and to meet your beautiful family.”

Coen’s quick smile turns into a full beam as he turns and introduces Ella and Hayden.

“Well, Hayden, do you like fishing?” Mr. Wallace asks, his hands on his knees as he speaks directly to Hayden.

Hayden’s bright-blue eyes shine with enthusiasm and excitement as he nods.

“We’ll have to get the best fisherman in town to take you. I’ll bet she’d love to take you.”

As if on cue, Grace and Kennedy come in from an adjoining doorway. Grace wears a smile that stretches nearly to her eyes, while Kennedy’s lips are barely forced into a grin. Her green eyes lock on me as soon as she takes a quick look around the room.

Mr. Wallace points a single finger toward his daughters, prompting Kennedy to tear her attention from me and push a long strand of her blonde hair behind an ear. “These are my daughters, Grace and Kennedy. And Grace is the best fisherman you’ll ever meet.”

Grace pulls her head back and tilts it with the same telltale sign he’s just said something she finds ludicrous. Kennedy’s narrow eyebrows slant over her eyes with confusion, but she says nothing as Grace laughs. “He’s pulling your leg. You’d be way better off with Kennedy.” She touches Kennedy’s shoulder with the pads of her fingers.

Mr. Wallace shakes his head. “She might be if she’d apply herself, but you can’t get her to stand still for more than five minutes at any given time.” He turns so his back is to both of his daughters. Grace’s cheeks grow red, and her eyebrows draw low over her eyes.

The situation makes not looking at Kennedy nearly impossible. I feel like I’m being a traitor by hearing these words and then looking for signs of recognition, rage, or hurt, yet I can’t seem to stop myself. Mr. Wallace has essentially provided me with the opportunity to see her while vulnerable—a state that makes it far easier to truly see someone’s inner self. Things people don’t mean to ever expose and actively try to hide are often visible when vulnerable. Kennedy’s shoulders are back, her entire upper body is bowed backward, as if his words were a blow that her body is recovering from. She blinks rapidly, confusion and pain circulating for a second before she looks to Grace, and the anger dissolves into concern. Kennedy takes Grace’s hand from her shoulder and holds it securely in her own before her lips part. It’s obvious she’s searching for the correct concoction of words to piece together, but before she can, their father continues.

“Grace is also a great swimmer. She can show you where all the best spots to swim are. In fact, there’s a place between our houses she’s been swimming in since she was knee-high to a grasshopper.”

“Both of our daughters are very strong swimmers and fishermen . . . women . . . fisherwomen?” Mrs. Wallace looks at her daughters with knit brows. “Is there a term for women who fish?”

Kennedy shrugs.

“There’s also some great biking trails here in Haven Point,” Mr. Wallace continues. “And Grace knows all about canoeing and kayaking. Have you ever been in a canoe or a kayak?”

Though it’s doubtful Hayden can read the resentment and subdued passive-aggressiveness in the room, it’s clear he can tell something is off, as he takes a step backward toward Ella and Coen.

“Dad, I hate kayaking and canoeing. I also don’t like fishing.” Grace stares at him, an underlying mountain of words silently passing to him as she waits for him to acknowledge her.

“But you’re so good at all of them,” he says.

Her eyebrows rise, widening her blue eyes and the fault line. “No.” She shakes her head. “I’m not.”

“We should sit down and eat before supper gets cold,” Mrs. Wallace says, breaking the tension with a couple of gentle pats to her daughters’ shoulders.

“I hope you don’t mind, but these need to go into the freezer,” Ella says, taking the paper sack from Coen. “We brought some root beer, Coke, and ice cream to make floats for dessert.”

Mrs. Wallace puts a hand to her chest. “Aren’t you sweet? And so beautiful. You really found yourself a catch, didn’t you?” she asks Coen.

Coen reaches for Hayden, pulling him against his chest. “There’s no one better than Ella and Hayden. I’m very lucky.”

Ella turns to Coen, and held within her smile and wide eyes is pure adoration for my little brother. Though I’d love to punctuate this moment with an embarrassing story—like how Coen refused to get dressed anywhere but the middle of our living room with the entire family as an audience until he was nine—I hold back and smile, grateful my brother has found his happiness.

“What about you, Joey? Are you married?” Mrs. Wallace looks at me. So do Grace and Mr. Wallace—but Kennedy looks away.

“I’m not,” I tell her with an accompanying smile.

“Dating?”

“Mom.” Kennedy draws out the word.

“What? I’m just making conversation,” Mrs. Wallace says.

I shake my head. “No. Work keeps me pretty busy.”

Mrs. Wallace smiles unabashedly.

Ella takes a step forward. “We really appreciate you making us dinner, but I actually brought something for Hayden. He has a terrible peanut allergy, and we have to be really careful about what he eats.” Ella pulls out a small lunchbox before passing the bag with the dessert ingredients to Mrs. Wallace.

Again, Mrs. Wallace replies, but I don’t hear what she says because Kennedy’s staring at me, and it’s demanding and far louder than any words. As I look to her, Coen gently shoves me, prompting me to follow the others, who are gathering around the long kitchen table that’s been set with a red-and-white checkered tablecloth and glasses of water and tea at each place setting.

There’s an awkward shuffle as we find places at the table. I look for a middle seat out of habit—the old Italian superstition that I’ll remain single if I sit at a corner engrained into me from my mother. Ella, Coen, and Hayden take one side of the table, leaving me between Kennedy and Grace, with their parents at either end. Coen looks at me, his lips pressed together, and his eyes grow wet with the laughter he works to hold back. The situation is far too similar to one of a dozen my mom has put me through at home, placing single women on both sides of me in hopes that one will spark a relationship. And similar to those times, my arms and legs feel too big, and I become acutely aware of how close I am and what my body language might be saying. It’s stupid and ridiculous—a product of having so many sisters who taught me far more about mannerisms and gestures than my time as a police officer has.

A large bowl of mashed potatoes sets on one end of the table, beside an even larger bowl that looks like soup. Biscuits are piled high in a basket, and a dish of mixed vegetables next to it, and a large green salad completing the meal.

“Have you had chicken and noodles before?” Kennedy asks.

I turn to face her, and find her eyes calm and patient, a gentle smile teasing her lips. “You start with mashed potatoes and top them with the chicken and noodles.” She nods toward the largest of dishes. “It’s sort of like chicken noodle soup, but it’s more of a gravy.”

“I hope you like carbs,” Grace says, her attention on her plate.

“We’re Italian,” I say. “We were born for carbs.”

A shared chorus of soft laughter breaks the awkwardness, making being here feel more comfortable.

“So how are you enjoying Haven Point?” Mrs. Wallace asks. She lifts a heaping bowl of mashed potatoes and passes it to Coen, who makes a mountain on his plate before passing it to Ella.

“We’re very happy here,” he tells her. “The people, the outdoors, all the space . . . we really love it.”

Mrs. Wallace grins. “Isn’t this town great? I always told my daughters they’d end up back home because there’s nowhere like Haven Point.”

“It’s not for everyone, Christine,” Mr. Wallace says, passing the salad to Grace. “Kennedy’s only here temporarily.”

The metal spoon connects harshly with Grace’s plate, and she resumes her glare toward her father, ending that fragile semblance of normalcy. “This is her home.”

“It will always be her home, but she belongs in Boston now.” Mr. Wallace goes back to being Tom in my mind as I wait for him to soften yet another blow he is so quick to deliver. He doesn’t.

There’s only a tiny dab of potatoes on Grace’s plate, but anger has distracted her, and with shaking hands, she passes the dish to me, dropping it into my hands. I look to Coen, who presses his lips together again and rounds his eyes as he sits back. It’s an expression all of my siblings have mastered that translates to what did you get us into?

“Her home is wherever she’s happy. A town or a state or an address doesn’t make a place someone’s home.” Grace’s words are icy and punctuated, driving the point further.

“Tom,” Mrs. Wallace says his name quietly, but like her oldest daughter, she stares at him, waiting until he looks at her before tilting her head with a silent argument. He drops his gaze.

“Are you all okay with tea and water? Or is there something else I can get you to drink? We have juice, Coke, lemonade.”

“We’re good,” Coen says, piling some vegetables on his plate. With each dish he receives, he drops less food onto his plate, a clear indication he’s hoping dinner will pass quickly.

I hand Kennedy the bowl of mashed potatoes. Much to my surprise, her green eyes focus on me, and the edges of her lips tip upward into a smile. I know next to nothing about her or this calm look of assurance she’s giving me. My heart thrums, and my appetite shrinks as a sense of anxiousness and unease settles into my gut.

“How are things with the house going?” Mrs. Wallace asks, looking down to Ella, Hayden, and Coen. “We heard they able to get rid of all the mice, and you guys are ready for the team to come help with installing the new insulation.”

Ella nods. “Thankfully, the exterminator you guys recommended was able to take care of everything. And Coen and Joey tore out all the old Sheetrock and insulation last week and even managed to get much of the rewiring done.”

“Wow. You guys know your way around a construction site.” Mrs. Wallace’s eyes gleam with approval, which I’m sure stems from owning a hardware store for so many years.

“Our dad was a foreman when we were growing up, and we were free labor,” I tell her.

Tom laughs, nodding his appreciation. “We’ve got a team of volunteers together who are ready to come help you with the new insulation and hang drywall. You just say when, and they’ll be there.”

Coen and I exchange looks. In DC, if it isn’t family making an offer like this, you don’t accept because you know it comes with a hefty price tag. Coen had been attempting to rebuff his earlier offers, but sits back, clearly uncomfortable.

“I appreciate that, but I couldn’t—” Coen begins.

Tom waves a hand. “You can, and you will. That’s what we do here in Haven Point. Helping each other is part of what makes this town special.”

Coen balances his fork between his finger and thumb and looks to me again, waiting for input I don’t have. This isn’t my town. These aren’t neighbors I’ll have to deal with if they get angry when I don’t accept their help—or when shit goes to hell if I do.

“What days are you off next week? We can arrange it around your schedule,” Mrs. Wallace says, pushing forward.

Kennedy volleys in her assistance. “Maybe they don’t want help. Maybe they’d prefer to do it at their own speed and their own way.”

“Boston’s made you forget what it’s like to be neighborly,” Tom tells her.

“Dad, I haven’t forgotten, I just also understand that sometimes people need to do things their own way and in their own time.”

“Independence has always been your handicap.” Tom doesn’t look up as he shares the insult with the entire room while moving his food around on his plate with a biscuit.

“Tom,” Mrs. Wallace clips. This time there’s a sternness that makes it clear her words are a warning.

Ella looks up from her plate, and placing a hand on Hayden’s back, she sits straighter in her chair, exposing her growing discomfort.

Shit.

The last thing I wanted to do was make anyone feel uncomfortable. I was expecting to dance around the subject of Grace’s condition and find out what’s going on. While family drama seemed like a given, this is so far out of left field, I don’t know how to process the situation. My thoughts are still on his oldest daughter wishing she were dead.

I look to Kennedy for a hint—an indication that this isn’t her normal life. Maybe it’s a plea I’m searching for as I stare at her—a plea for me to intervene and say or do something.

But Kennedy ignores me.

Mrs. Wallace begins talking again, her happy tone slowly infiltrating the negative space. Still, I stare at Kennedy. When she continues not to acknowledge me, I bump my thigh against hers, no longer trying to keep my large frame in its constricted box.

Slowly, Kennedy leans back in her chair and turns just enough to acknowledge me, her eyes rounded, telling me to drop it.

The rest of dinner passes in a blur of dates and advice on the house until Ella yawns, and Coen makes the excuse that we should get going.

“Would you like me to make up some dessert really fast?” Mrs. Wallace scoots her chair back, standing before anyone else can rise.

“I appreciate it, but it’s gotten pretty late. We should probably do a raincheck.” Ella pulls Hayden to her.

The poor guy looks bored senseless rather than tired, but I’m not going to point that out. “Why don’t we help you get these dishes cleared?”

“Oh no.” Mrs. Wallace gives a dismissive shoo of her hand. “This will be cleaned up in a jiffy. With the girls home and helping, everything gets done so quickly, I find myself running out of things to do.”

The rest of us stand, including Grace and Kennedy. As Grace grips her chair to push it in, the sleeve of her shirt slides up, revealing an angry gash from her nails. I wonder what the extent of the damage is, but before anyone else sees it, she pulls her hand back and adjusts her shirt to cover the scratches, and smiles.

“Thank you so much for having us,” I say, waiting once again for Kennedy to look my way. She’s ignored me so much tonight, I’m debating if she’s embarrassed or hates me as much as she sometimes seems to.

“It was our pleasure. We’ll have to do it again soon.” Mrs. Wallace wraps her arms around me. The gesture is so familiar, having been raised in a family filled with affection and love, yet the sentiment feels foreign as I gently pat her shoulders in an attempt to reciprocate the gesture. She continues on, hugging Coen, then Hayden, and finally Ella, before Tom shakes our hands and then hugs Ella, too. Kennedy follows, starting with Hayden, whom she leans down to speak directly to. I can’t hear her words but notice Ella’s smile forming before Kennedy reaches out for a high five. She then wraps Ella in a hug and shares something with her, again too quiet for anyone to hear as we talk about meaningless things, like pollen and how the sun is setting earlier. Ella’s smile becomes a quiet laugh as the two women part, tickling my mind with curiosity. When Kennedy turns to Coen, my brother embraces her in a hug, something he’s told me is customary in the south—hug women goodbye, and shake the hands of men. But when Kennedy turns to me, she doesn’t open her arms for a hug. Instead, she looks at me with big green eyes, and something that looks like appreciation is present in her shy smile.

I expel a deep breath and take a step forward, wrapping my arms around her shoulders. Her perfume is subtle, sweet, and slightly floral. It makes me want to bend lower and press my nose to the crook of her neck so I can breathe it in deeper. Wisps of her hair tickle my cheek as I keep my grasp loose. Hers is even looser, like she’s tolerating my hug rather than reciprocating it. The moment my hands fall from her back, she retreats to where Grace hangs back by their mom, offering another friendly smile and wave as we move toward the door.

“Let me grab the stuff for floats,” Mrs. Wallace says.

“No,” Ella says. “You guys keep it and enjoy them whenever.”

A dozen more thank-yous are shared before Mrs. Wallace finally closes the door, and we take a collective breath.

“What was that?” Coen asks.

“It was awkward, right?” Ella asks.

“Incredibly awkward,” Coen confirms.

“I didn’t know whether to stick up for Kennedy or change the subject or what,” Ella says. “I felt terrible.”

“What was with that?” Coen wraps an arm around Hayden’s shoulders. “Isn’t it strange that both of their grown daughters returned home?”

“I don’t think it’s that unusual these days,” Ella says. “The job market’s tough.”

“But why are they fine with Grace being home and not Kennedy?” Hayden asks, reminding us all that we shouldn’t be discussing this right now.

“I’m sure they’re glad she’s home,” Ella says. “I think there’s more to the story that we’re not aware of.”

“I really wanted a root beer float,” Hayden says, allowing an easy segue for the conversation.

When we return home, the mosquitoes are flying in flocks, leading us to retreat to our separate living spaces. My muscles are fatigued, but my mind is too restless for sleep or watching TV. I can’t even look through the old case files I brought with me. I slide on my flip-flops and lock my door behind me out of habit before making my way to the pond, wondering with each step if she’ll be there.

A single splash followed by the quiet lapping of the water makes me grow impatient. There’s someone in the water, but it’s too dark for me to clearly see who. I get to the edge and wait to see her blonde hair before kicking off my shoes and dropping my shirt and shorts.

Her long hair appears to dance with the water, moving and gliding to a tune I yearn to hear myself. She stops swimming, and before she can turn to see me, I grab the rope and jump in.

Kennedy wipes a hand over her face as I surface. “What are you doing?” She looks around, as though she’s expecting others.

“What happened at dinner tonight? What happened with your sister? Why are you really here?”

My questions fire off like ammunition, each one making her flinch more than the last. She shakes her head. “Why are you here?” she repeats. “Are you following me?”

“No, I didn’t follow you.” I sound offended, and I am, though I had hoped she’d be here.

“We’re not friends,” Kennedy says. “You don’t know me, and I don’t know you.”

I nod. “I know.”

“Then why are you asking me all of these questions?” She shakes her head, visibly flustered.

“Your sister said she wanted to die. This is serious.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Her eyes grow impossibly wide with offense.

“Why are you really here?” I ask her.

“I already told you.”

My eyes narrow, working to read her. It’s obvious there’s more to this story than the basic nuts and bolts she’s sharing with me. “Why didn’t you get a roommate? Couch surf for a while until you could get on your feet?”

“You don’t get to interrogate me. I’m not one of your victims or criminals. I’m a neighbor, who you’ll likely never see again once you leave Haven Point and return to your life.”

“Is Grace . . .”

Kennedy juts her chin forward, staring at me as if waiting for me to label her sister. When I don’t, she quietly sighs. “Mentally ill?” she states the words loudly. Clearly. “They’re not bad words. Why does everyone treat mental illness like it’s contagious? Like if the words are spoken, it might turn into the next plague?” Her eyes are dark, reflecting the black sheen from the pond.

“So this isn’t new?”

Her eyes flare. “It’s complicated.”

“But has she done this before?”

Kennedy tilts her head, looking up to the sky before sinking below the glassy surface of the water. When she reappears, she’s several feet away. “Grace is okay . . . she’s . . . going to be okay.”

I think of my sisters and wonder what I would do if one of them had a secret like this. It’s difficult for me to say since I’ve never experienced it myself, but I can understand the need to keep it private. Hell, privacy is what brought me here to Haven Point. I needed to get out of the city and away from the newspapers and stations that were all discussing Holden. Away from nosy neighbors, and my mom who was stopping by to check on me daily.

“I kind of wanted to punch your dad a couple of times tonight.”

My admission makes her stop and tilt her head. “What?” Seconds after she asks, Kennedy moves, swimming toward the shore. “That’s just him. You have to learn to ignore half of what he says.”

“Why are you so difficult?” I ask.

Her head whips around, revealing her furrowed eyebrows and familiar scowl. “I’m not difficult.”

“You’ve been a pain in the ass since I met you.”

“Well, maybe it’s time you go back home.” She continues her path toward the shore.

“Maybe you’re attracted to me, and that makes you uncomfortable.”

She stops abruptly and quickly turns to face me. “What did you say?” Her voice is strained, her eyes narrowed.

“You’re attracted to me.”

Her eyebrows rise impossibly high. “You’re delusional.”

“You don’t want to let your guard down because in addition to being attracted to me, you’re afraid you might actually like me.”

She juts her chin forward. “Are you hearing yourself? How big is your ego to say such ridiculous and . . . ostentatious . . . pretentious . . . garbage like that?”

Mother Mary, help me, I’m swimming toward her. Kennedy’s seething, but she doesn’t move as I get closer to where she’s now standing in the shallows, the water lapping against her hips. My heart pounds harder in my chest as each of my questions about her family and childhood are replaced with thoughts of how I want to run my fingers through her hair and make it part like the water had. How soft and smooth her lips look. How badly I want to feel her skin against mine. And how much I want her to admit she’s curious, too.

Her breath is cool against my damp skin as I take two steps closer to her. “You clearly don’t like me. I don’t like you, either,” I tell her, shaking my head. “You hit my truck, you give me dirty looks, and you insult me . . . using words I don’t even know . . . You’re this confounding and confusing and stupidly beautiful woman serving to remind me why I’m still single.” Her breath is cool against my damp skin as I take two steps closer to her.

Her eyes narrow, and her lips purse with a retort.

I reach forward and place a hand in the middle of her back, noting how warm her skin is against my fingers.

“What are you doing?” she asks. “People who hate each other don’t make out.”

“I never used the word hate.” I take another step closer to her.

“It was implied.”

I pull her closer so that our chests brush. “I want to kiss you.”

Her eyebrows draw low, a dozen questions racing just below the surface of her eyes, too deep for me to see clearly but shallow enough for their presence to be known. “It won’t change anything.”

“Is that a no?”

Her brows delve lower. “What?”

“Can I kiss you?”

“You’re asking me?” Kennedy’s voice is pitched with surprise.

“Say no or I’m going to.”

“This has to be the least romantic or sexy moment in history. Like, all of history.”

“You’re not saying no.”

Her shoulders rise. “So there are check boxes now? What is this?”

I lean closer and close my eyes. It feels like I’m jumping off that damn rope swing. My stomach is in my throat, and my entire body is anxiously awaiting contact with her. The second our lips connect, the heat of her lips sear mine like an imprint, and time freezes. I have too many thoughts running through my head that all begin with If I and end with will Kennedy run? Ranging from if I angle my head so I can kiss her deeper, to where I can safely place my other hand. The lapse of time heightens each of my senses as they note how the pressure of her lips increases and then lingers, sending chills straight down my spine. Her cold hands wrap around the back of my neck, drawing herself even closer to me so I can feel her skin and the small triangles of her bathing suit. I hold her closer and swipe my tongue along the seal of her lips. Kennedy hums a quiet appreciation. The questions stirring through my head cease, and all I focus on are the sensations coursing through me. How each one seems more intense and lasts longer than the last.

My hands glide up and down her sides, pushing and pulling the pieces of her bathing suit with each pass, creating a frenzy in both of us.

“I want to take off your top.” My voice is hoarse, but I forget about that when she places a kiss on my chin and nods her agreement.

I pull the back of her head toward me again, swiping my tongue along hers, faster this time, and while I do, I pull the perfect bow around her neck and the second one in the middle of her back. The fabric slides between us, falling with a gentle splash. Kennedy’s breasts are full and soft, skimming my chest and sending me into sensory overload.