Chapter 6 Lucy #2
Harris glares at him. “Shut up, Bill.” He plants his hands on his knees, water still dripping off him in steady streams. “Enjoy the show?”
I quirk a brow, crossing my arms. “You mean the show where you flailed before face-planting into the lake? Highlight of my day.”
Wally snickers. “I’d pay to watch that again.”
Hair soaked and plastered to his forehead, lake water dripping from his shoulders, his shirt clinging to every muscle like it was painted on. The swim trunks? A mistake on his part, but a gift to everyone else.
And by everyone else I mean me.
Much as I love roasting him, I can’t ignore the very annoying fact that his body looks fantastic.
So good.
Which is so unfair.
Harris catches me staring and wipes a hand down his chest, drawing my eyes there. “Are you checking me out?”
“I—” I scramble for an excuse, coming up empty. “No! Your shirt is dripping wet. It’s disgusting.”
Really, Lucy? His dripping-wet shirt is disgusting? Liar, liar, pants on fire . . . lamest retort to ever retort—and embarrassingly transparent.
Harris hums—he does not believe me for a second. Then does the thing I did not want him to do: reaches for the hem of his tee.
“Don’t—” I beg, knowing what’s coming.
Too late.
We all watch as, in one smooth motion, he yanks the shirt over his head, then drops it onto the dock with a wet slap, leaving him in nothing but those damp shorts and work boots.
Water beads along the planes of his smooth chest, trailing down his abs—abs that, to my absolute dismay, look like they’ve been carved out of granite.
I swear the sun hits him just right, casting shadows onto his six-pack.
Where the hell did Annabelle find this guy?
Seriously.
He isn’t giving lumberjack. He’s giving . . .
Model.
The kind of guy who walks around shirtless and lets water spill down his bare body.
I swallow hard, resisting the urge to do something undignified—like drool.
The worst part? Harris knows I think he’s good looking.
Then, as a test to my willpower, he runs a hand through his wet hair, shaking out the excess water in a move so effortless, so calculated, it nearly makes both my brain and my vagina short-circuit.
I absolutely refuse to be impressed.
“You know what you’re missing?” I force the words to sound cool. Force my gaze to his face.
Harris tilts his head, intrigued. “Oh? Do tell.”
I let the moment stretch. “A flannel shirt. Maybe a little plaid.”
“Wow. So my raw, natural talent isn’t good enough for you?”
I blink innocently. “What talent?”
Wally nearly chokes laughing. Bill claps him on the back.
Harris narrows his eyes at me, but amusement flickers there. He steps closer, shaking his head. “You really enjoy testing me, don’t you?”
I flash him my most innocent smile. “What? I’m being honest.”
“Don’t count me out yet. The event is a long way off.”
No, it’s not. It’s days from now, but he doesn’t seem to be counting.
“And then you’ll be gone.”
“That’s the plan.” He smiles. “Why? You gonna miss me?”
I don’t move. I should step back, put some distance between me and the walking hard body and his six-pack—but I don’t. Instead, I hold his gaze, stubborn and steady.
Intense.
“Is that a yes—that you leave Monday?” I ask again, keeping the conversation on track.
He raises one eyebrow. “Unfortunately.”
Does that mean he wouldn’t mind staying?
Does that mean this back-and-forth between us isn’t fun and games?
Not that it matters.
I clear my throat, pushing past the weird little flutter in my chest. “Well. I won’t get attached, then.”
Harris studies me while everyone looks on. “That sounds suspiciously like disappointment I hear in your voice.”
I scoff. “You wish.”
“Do I?”
I blink.
My brain stutters.
He’s teasing—but not just teasing. There’s something else there, something unspoken in the way he watches me, like he’s trying to pull a reaction out of me. Like he’s waiting to see if I’ll flinch.
I won’t.
I do what I do best—I deflect.
I scoff, rolling my shoulders back. “You’re really digging deep for that ego boost, huh?”
Harris tilts his head, smirk flickering into something unreadable. “Trying to get an honest answer out of you, that’s all.”
“Honest answer?” I huff out a laugh. “How is this: I’ll miss watching you wipe out anytime you go near the water.”
“Is that why you stopped by today?”
I inhale sharply, my brain scrambling for an excuse. A good one. A logical one.
“I’m here because someone has to make sure you don’t drown,” I say, my voice even. “There are no lifeguards in this town.”
Harris lets out a low whistle, placing a hand over his chest like I’ve wounded him. “Ouch. You really think a guy who looks like this is gonna drown?”
Then, because he’s Harris, he gestures broadly at himself—shirtless, wet, and maddeningly smug.
And so damn sexy.
My pulse kicks up.
The air between us heavier than it was moments ago. He is still dripping—water sliding down the length of his arm, across the line of his shoulder, tracing over the muscles in the most distracting way.
“You know something, Lucy?” Harris drawls, voice smooth as sin. “There’s nothing I’d rather be doing than showing you all the things I’m good at that have nothing to do with wood.”
He grins.
I roll my eyes. “Wow. You’re so subtle.”
I won’t pretend it’s easy to think standing in front of this stupidly hot, frustratingly cocky man with his golden retriever confidence, his rough hands, his broad chest, and that damn smirk that says he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
Heat crawls up my neck. But still, I step closer to him, tipping my head enough to look into his pretty eyes with the long lashes. “You talk a big game, Harris. Hope your skills live up to the sales pitch.”
Wally snorts. Bill coughs into his elbow, barely concealing his laughter. Even Annabelle—who has rejoined us—presses her fingers to her temple, her secondhand embarrassment for me palpable.
“Stop looking at me like that!” I snap, though the words lose their bite.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know!”
“You’re so fun to mess with,” he adds, voice low and teasing. “But I’ll save some teasing for later.”
My stomach flips. “Later?” I repeat, half horrified, half tingling all over.
His smirk deepens. “We have days and days to dance around this.”
“Days to dance around what?” I hear myself whisper, suddenly hyperaware of how close we still are.
Harris leans in. My brain goes into a tailspin. “To do whatever it is you want. With me.”
Oh.
Oh Jesus.
My throat goes dry. My thoughts go everywhere.
“Like what?” I ask, and I hate how breathy my voice sounds.
His smirk widens, his gaze flickering over my face like he’s memorizing every little reaction. “You’ll figure it out.”
I don’t even get the chance to ask, because Harris chooses that moment to turn on the heel of his boot and walk away—leaving me standing there, absolutely ruined by a conversation I can’t fully compute. Brain dumb.
Later that afternoon, as Annabelle and I gossip about him at Loon Landing Café, she leans across the table, transfixed.
“Days and days to do whatever you want?” She scoffs. “Told you to your face you could do anything?” She leans back against the chair. “Damn. That guy is so freaking hot.”
I stab at my iced coffee with a straw, watching the ice spin. “I can’t believe anyone would say that to my face. I was shook.”
Annabelle gives me the most exasperated look I’ve ever seen. “Lucy, the man handed you an opportunity, and you fumbled it.”
I groan again, avoiding her searing gaze. “I didn’t fumble it—I strategically avoided a potential disaster.”
She throws her hands up. “What disaster? A ridiculously hot guy flirting with you?”
“Yes!” I point at her like she’s proving my own point. “Yes. Exactly that. Thank you for understanding.”
Annabelle stares at me blankly. “That is not a disaster. That is a dream scenario.”
I scowl, dropping my hand. “It’s a trap, Annabelle.”
Her eyes narrow. “Lucy, it’s a shirtless, wet, gorgeous man flirting with you. Where is the downside?”
I groan, slumping forward onto the table. “It’s a defense mechanism, okay? I can’t help getting defensive with men.”
Annabelle tilts her head, arms crossing. “Defensive? Or terrified?”
“I’m not terrified.” I lift my head to glare at her. “He takes up way too much space. Physically, emotionally—whatever other -ly you can think of. He’s like . . .” I wave a hand in the air, searching for the right word. “A golden retriever that hit the gym too hard.”
Annabelle snorts. “A damn good-looking golden retriever.”
“Not the point,” I grumble, glaring at my coffee mug.
My best friend regards me, swirling her drink thoughtfully. “So what’s the real issue here, Lucy?”
I blink at her. “The real issue?”
“Yeah.” She gives me a look like she can see straight through my nonsense. “You’re flustered because he’s hot? Or because he got under your skin?”
“Neither,” I snap, a little too quickly.
Annabelle’s smirk widens. “Uh-huh. Sure.”
“It’s true!” I insist, ignoring the warmth creeping up my neck. “He’s obnoxious. Completely full of himself. And—and he thinks he can get whatever he wants with a grin and a wink.”
“Can’t he?”
I freeze, my brain short-circuiting at the memory of Harris standing too close, grinning that stupid grin, and the way my heart did something absolutely traitorous in response.
Annabelle knows exactly where my mind goes. “Oh my God. He can.”
“He cannot!” I snap at her.
She bursts into laughter, way too pleased with herself. “Lucy, I love you—but you’re such a liar. In fact, I’m going to do you a favor here and send him your number.”
“Don’t. You. Dare.”
“Why not? You’re too stubborn about this. We both know you didn’t show up at the marina to see me—you barely saw me standing there.”
Facts. I hadn’t said hello. I was too busy staring at Harris and flirting with him.
“Please don’t give him my number. Don’t you dar—”
But Annabelle is already typing, thumbs flying across her screen like some kind of texting ninja.
“Annabelle!” I lunge halfway across the table to yank the phone out of her grasp, but she’s too quick for me, wrenching it out of reach, cackling like the traitor she is.
“This is for your own good!” she singsongs, waving the phone tauntingly in the air. “What’s the worst thing that could happen?”
“So many things,” I snap, straightening in my seat like I’m about to present a PowerPoint on all the ways this could go horribly wrong. “For starters, what if he’s messing with me? What if he’s some kind of pathological flirt who says that to every girl he meets?”
“Okay, drama queen.” Annabelle rolls her eyes. “You’re smart, you’re funny, you’re gorgeous. Why wouldn’t he be into you?”
I open my mouth to argue—because arguing is what I do—but the words die on my tongue. I blink at her. “You say that like dating is easy.”
“It is easy.” She sips her drink, annoyingly casual. “Confidence, Lucy. Fake it till you make it.”
“Confidence isn’t my problem.” I slouch in the booth. “Men like Harris are my problem. He’s too much.”
“Too much what?”
“Too much charm. Too much everything.” I wave a hand vaguely in the air. “He’s the kind of guy who could talk his way out of a speeding ticket and get the cop’s numb—”
My phone buzzes, cutting me off mid-sentence. Annabelle arches an eyebrow, eyes like a hawk zeroing in on its prey.
“Gee. Who could that be?” She feigns innocence as if she didn’t know who was messaging me.
I glance at the screen, heart stumbling. Then I groan. “I seriously hate you.”
“You love me.”
“No, I really don’t.”
Annabelle is undeterred from torturing me. “Then why are you smiling?”
Am I?
My fingers go to my face, and I touch my mouth.
Shit.
I am smiling.