Epilogue Lucy
Epilogue
Lucy
I’ve been in Arizona for exactly forty-eight hours, and here are the important things I’ve learned:
The sun here is not messing around. It will burn you to a crisp faster than Harris can demolish a plate of nachos.
Harris’s house is . . . massive. Like, “I got lost looking for the bathroom” massive. Like, “I was half convinced there was a wing I wasn’t allowed in” massive.
His pool is where I now live.
Floating on a giant inflatable donut, I bob up and down on the clear blue water—sunglasses on, hat tilted over my face—while Harris splashes around beside me like an overgrown Labrador puppy.
“I bet you five bucks I can flip you over without using my hands,” he announces, wading closer, water dripping down his smooth, muscular chest.
I love that chest. Could stare at it all damn day, especially soaking wet.
“Don’t you freaking dare. I will kill you.” I’ve been threatening him all weekend. Another thing I’ve learned about him (that I basically already knew)? Harris loves making bets—and making things interesting.
It’s cute.
Until it’s not.
He grins at me, pearly white teeth and mischief, and then—he disappears. Full-on submarine mode.
I freeze. The donut bobbles beneath me, and I tighten my grip, heart racing. “Harris?”
Silence.
The water ripples ominously.
“This isn’t funny!” I warn him, squinting over the side of the pink sprinkled tube, peering into the crystal water below me; unfortunately he is nowhere to be seen.
“Oh no,” I whisper. “I swear to God . . .”
The tube shifts. I squeal.
When his hand brushes my ankle, I shriek overdramatically, flailing as if my life depends on it, desperate to get away from his grasp.
I Refuse to go under!
He surfaces a few feet away, splashing water at me. “You’re jumpy.”
I glare, pushing soggy strands of hair off my face. “You are so annoying!”
He circles me slowly in the water like a shark, predator-style, shoulders bobbing above the surface. “You look nervous, babe.”
Because I am. “Will you leave me alone if I take my top off?” I offer.
He tilts his head, considering it. “No. ’Cause then I’ll want my hands on you more.”
He goes under again.
I yelp. He wouldn’t dare! “Harris! No!”
The water goes still. I whip my head side to side, searching.
Suddenly, my donut lifts—flips—sending me into the water with a melodramatic splash. I flail as if I cannot swim . . . find my footing, and push off the bottom.
When I resurface, I’m sputtering. The dipshit is laughing so hard he’s coughing.
“Dead. You are so dead.” I launch myself at him, but of course he catches me easily, both of us laughing and breathless.
This has been the best day.
He brushes water off my face. “I couldn’t resist.”
“I’m going to drown you,” I promise, kissing him on the nose. He has freckles in the sun, and I touch one with the tip of my fingers as he cradles me in his arms, walking laps in the shallow end.
Holding me.
It really has been the best few days; neither of us is as itchy as we were when he left Star Lake, and better news? Chlorine from his pool helps take away the itch. Who knew?
I rest my head on his shoulder as he keeps pacing slow laps in the shallow end, his arms strong and steady around me. He’s holding me like I weigh nothing, his fingers trailing lazily up and down my back.
I trace a freckle with my fingertip. “You have freckles.”
He smiles softly. “I get them in the summer. You like?”
“Love.”
“You love my freckles?” he asks gently, curiosity also lacing his words—like he’s hoping I’ll say more.
I swallow, heart hammering. “I love everything about you.”
His arms tighten around me. “Lucy.”
“Hmm?”
“You love my freckles?”
I roll my eyes but can’t help laughing. “I just said that.”
He arches a brow. “That’s not the same thing as saying you love me.”
I blink at him, feeling my heart do a ridiculous little flip. “Harris . . .”
He waits. I bite my lip, nerves suddenly clogging my throat. I want to say it. I really, really do. But he stares me down, smug as ever, as if he’s going to make me squirm for it.
I narrow my eyes. “You’re trying to make me say it first.”
He shrugs, clearly unbothered. “I like winning.”
I open my mouth—then shut it.
He leans in, brushing his nose against mine. “C’mon. Admit it.”
I stay stubbornly silent. Because it has only been two weeks since we’ve met. People can’t possibly fall in love in that short amount of time.
Can they? It’s not possible. Is it?
I look at him—really look at him. His wet hair sticking up like a rooster, those ridiculous freckles dusting his nose and shoulders, the way his mouth twitches at the corners like he’s fighting back another joke.
God help me. I’m completely, stupidly, head over heels in love with this man.
My brain tries to talk me out of it—rattling off logical arguments like some overly cautious life coach in my head. Too soon. Too crazy. Too unrealistic.
But my heart is standing there with a giant foam finger, screaming “Too Late, Loser.”
Harris nudges my cheek with his. “I can see it, you know.”
I blink. “See what?”
“That you love me.” His grin softens into something vulnerable. “You’re trying to logic your way out of it, and it’s adorable.”
I open my mouth to protest, but he cuts me off.
“It’s okay,” he says happily. “I wasn’t expecting it either. But here we are. Floating in my pool, still covered in poison ivy, with a bruised rib from your trellis—and I’ve never been more happy.”
I exhale, laughing and sniffling at the same time. “Why are you like this?”
“Like what?” He blinks at me innocently.
“So . . . infuriating.” UGH!
“Why can’t you say the words?”
My throat tightens, tears pricking the corners of my eyes. I press my palm against his heart, feeling it beat strong and steady beneath my hand.
“I love you,” I whisper.
He lets out a long breath and holds me tighter, kissing the top of my head. “I knew it.”
“Shut up.”
“Oh my God.” He laughs, tipping me back in his arms so he can look down at me. “You are so obsessed with me.”
Before I can retort, he suddenly drops me—lets me go—and I splash beneath the water with a shriek. When I surface, sputtering and pushing wet hair out of my face, he’s already climbing onto one of the giant inflatable donut tubes.
He grins down at me like a kid who found the cookie jar. “Race you. Donut to donut.”
I’m not in the mood to race him. I have better ideas.
Reaching around my back, my fingers find the hook of my bikini top and unclasp it, letting the straps hang.
Harris bobs on his donut tube, perched on top of it like a pirate, watching me like I’m a stick of dynamite with a lit fuse. “Why the hell would you do that?” he asks, affronted. “That’s cheating.”
I shrug. “You wanted a race. I’m leveling the playing field.”
One of my straps falls.
Harris freezes. His donut tilts dangerously as he leans forward. “You’re bluffing.”
Am I, though?
I tug the top free and twirl it around one finger before tossing it to the pool deck with a casual flick. Off it goes . . .
He blinks.
I grin.
“Game over,” he mutters, sliding off his donut and swimming toward me like a shark on a mission.
I squeal, trying to backpedal—but he’s faster. Strong arms wrap around my waist, pulling me flush against him in the water.
“You’re evil,” he murmurs into my ear, kissing me. Hands splaying up my backside, along my spine.
“I’m resourceful.” I tilt my head up and kiss his jaw, feeling him shiver against me. “Girlies do what they have to do.”
He pulls back to look down at me. His gaze is warm and hungry and full of affection all at once.
“Marry me,” he says, dead serious.
He is out of his damn mind!
I splash water at him. “You can’t propose while we’re both half naked in your pool!”
“Well. When can I propose?” He’s pouting now, but joking.
“You said give it twelve months. So I’ll see you in twelve months.” I swat at his hands as they reach for my boobs beneath the clear water.
He catches my wrists easily, pinning them playfully against his chest. “Twelve months? That’s cruel and unusual punishment.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You’ll survive.”
“I might not.” He leans in and kisses me again, this time slow and teasing, like he’s trying to convince me otherwise. “And in the meantime . . .”
Harris’s giant hands have me by the waist, and he hoists me up, setting me on the pool deck, palms spreading my legs. Up my rib cage. Over my breasts.
I lean back on my elbows, the sun warming every inch of my skin as Harris stands between my legs, water dripping from his body onto the stone deck. He looks up at me with that devilish grin that makes my toes curl.
“You know,” he says, fingers circling my nipple. “I could ask again tomorrow. Or the day after that. Maybe every day for the next twelve months until you cave.”
I roll my eyes, but my smile betrays me. “Persistent much?”
He shrugs, hands sliding down to my thighs, thumbs flirting with the hemline of my swim bottoms. “I’m a linebacker. Persistence is my job.”
When he nips at my skin, I gasp.
The sun beats down on us, the sound of the pool filter humming in the background, and for the first time in a long time, I feel completely, ridiculously happy.
“Ever had sex in a pool?”
I shake my head. “No—and I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
He leans forward and licks my nipple. “Why?”
“Chlorine up my vajayjay? We have horrible luck.”
He chuckles, pressing a wet kiss to my sternum. “Nah. We have excellent luck. We found each other.”
I melt a little. Sometimes he says the sweetest things . . .
He slides his hands under my thighs, pulling me to the very edge of the deck, my calves resting on his broad shoulders. “I think we should test the pool theory,” he declares. “Or. I can do this . . .”
He dips his head between my thighs, finger hooking my swimsuit bottom and pulling it aside before putting his mouth there, lips on my pussy in the spot I love most. Nothing is more erotic than watching him with his face on my clit, but still, I tug him upward by the hair and press my forehead to his.
“Twelve months,” I whisper.
“Nine,” Harris bargains.
“Ten.”
He groans, throwing his head back. “Fine. Ten. But I’m proposing in the most embarrassing way possible.”
I grin. “I’d expect nothing less.”