Chapter 11 Finn #2
Inside, the cottage smells like fresh linen and driftwood, like a life lived slowly.
Bright woven rugs cover the floor. A low ceiling fan spins lazily, stirring the air just enough to cool the back of my neck.
The kitchen counters are tiled in a sun-washed teal, and shells line the windowsill where the light hits them and makes them glow.
The old couch is still here, soft from years of use, the cushions sunken in the exact way I remember.
It's different from Wisteria Cove in every possible way.
And Rowan steps past me, her face open and awestruck, hair lifted by the ocean breeze, eyes shining in the golden light.
Cal’s already stocked the fridge and left a note taped on the blender that reads: Don’t break it this time.
I roll my eyes. That was one time. One incident several years back with him. Two margaritas. Three stitches. And suddenly I’m a legend. Cal always has jokes.
Rowan kicks off her shoes the second we walk in, laughs, and throws herself backward on the couch like a happy starfish claiming new territory. “I could live here forever.”
I swear the air in the cottage jumps ten degrees. Being here with Rowan, with both of us in fewer clothes than usual, is going to be fun. And torture. Mostly torture.
I lean against the doorway like an idiot already in too deep. She has no idea how much I love her. None. She tosses another paperback into the pile she is taking to the beach, mumbling about options and moods and backup reads, and I cannot do anything except stare like she is the sun.
“Give me ten minutes,” she says, grabbing her clothes and disappearing down the short hall to change.
I inhale, steadying myself. Her sandalwood perfume lingers in the air, soft and warm, mixing with the salty ocean breeze drifting through the screen door.
I grab sunscreen, the beach bag, a couple of cold drinks, and try not to think about what she is doing in that little bedroom. Changing. Skin. Bare legs. God help me.
When she emerges, it knocks the breath clean out of me. Her cover-up is loose and light, brushing mid-thigh, and her hair is pulled up, a few strands falling around her face. She looks soft and sunlit, like something the ocean washed up just to torture me personally.
“Ready?” she asks, pretending she does not feel the tension stretching between us.
“Yeah,” I manage. My voice sounds like it has been dragged over gravel.
We collect the last few things, her stack of books wobbling in her arms. I take them from her because there is no universe where I let her carry more than she needs to. She rolls her eyes but smiles, and it hits me straight in the chest.
We walk the sandy path from the cottage to the beach, the boards warm under our feet.
The afternoon sun hangs low, turning the sky gold and peach.
The beach is alive in that soft, lazy way that happens near the end of the day.
A family is packing up their cooler. Kids shriek as they chase each other near the tide.
A couple strolls along the waterline, hands intertwined.
Someone farther down strums a guitar, the music drifting on the warm wind.
We pick a spot between two palms, the perfect mix of privacy and people-watching.
I set up the chairs while Rowan shakes out her towel, sending a faint spray of sand into the air that glitters in the light.
The ocean stretches out in front of us, deep blue with streaks of orange from the sinking sun.
Rowan sets her bag down and then, without warning, pulls her cover-up over her head.
My brain almost short-circuits. Her swimsuit hugs every curve. Sun-kissed skin, water-ready confidence, long legs that go on forever. She glances at me, unaware of the absolute destruction she is causing, and flips her braid over her shoulder.
I force myself to breathe. This is going to be a long week. A beautiful, impossible, torturous, perfect week.
And I already know I am not going to survive it unchanged.
“Hey, Coconut Ken, want to spray some sunscreen on my back?” she asks, tilting the bottle towards me. “I’ll do you next.”
I make a strangled sound that comes out as a cough and a whimper.
“What?” She laughs, plopping down on her chair like she doesn’t know she just ended me.
“Nothing,” I croak as I spray the lotion into her shoulders, trying to concentrate.
“You’re being weird.”
Yeah. Weird. Sure, that’s what we’re calling it these days. Not head over heels in love with her.
I hold up the sunscreen bottle. “Turn,” I say, and my voice comes out rougher than I intend.
Rowan gives me a look, half amused, half shy, then turns around and lifts her hair off her neck. The tiny movement alone is enough to wreck me. The sun has warmed her skin, golden and soft, and the faint scent of coconut drifts toward me, sweet and dizzying.
I spray lightly at first, but she lets out the smallest inhale when the mist hits her shoulders, and my hand trembles.
I smooth the sunscreen over her back, slow circles, letting the lotion sink into her skin.
She relaxes under my touch, her muscles softening, her breath catching just enough for me to hear it.
“Sorry,” she murmurs. “It’s cold.”
It is not cold. Not anymore. My hands are warm on her, and her skin is warmer under them.
I can feel her breathing, the rise and fall, the tiny shiver she tries to hide.
Her shoulder blades shift when she exhales.
Her hair brushes against my wrist. Every part of her is doing something to me I am not prepared for.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” I say quietly.
She swallows. “It’s fine. Feels nice.”
Nice.
She has no idea how hard I am working not to pull her back against me, not to bury my face in her neck.
I move down her arms, her waist, the line of her spine. I feel her melt a little more with each pass of my hands. When I finish, she turns around, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. She hands me the bottle with a look that makes my stomach flip.
“My turn.”
My pulse jumps. “Yeah. Okay.”
I stand still while she steps close, so close I can feel the warmth radiating off her. She sprays my chest first, and the cold mist makes me jolt. She bites her bottom lip, fighting a grin.
“Sorry,” she says. She is not sorry.
Her hands glide across my chest, my shoulders, my arms. Gentle but firm. She lingers near my collarbone longer than she realizes. Her fingertips drag just slightly, and I have to clench my jaw to keep from making a sound.
She feels it. I know she does. Her breath hitches, barely, but I catch it. Her eyes flick to my mouth for a heartbeat before she looks away again, flustered.
The world narrows down to her hands on my skin, the ocean behind us, the distant voices of kids playing in the surf, and the pounding of my heart in my ears.
By the time she steps back, both of us are pretending this was normal. Casual. Nothing to see here.
It is not normal. None of this is casual. Her hands were on me. Mine were on her.
We settle into our chairs finally, but my body still feels electrified, like her touch left fingerprints on my bones.
I tip my head back, crack open a bottle of water, and try not to combust as she stretches out beside me, sunglasses on, smile lazy and wide. She digs through her bag and produces three books.
“Which one should I read?” she asks, holding them up.
I look at the cover that has two illustrated people on a beach. “That one. Just Another Summer Escape. Looks beachy.”
She smiles as she tucks the other books away. Then, she rolls onto her front and cracks it open in front of her, that perfect ass on display. “It’s about a hot bartender and a runaway bride.”
I lose track of time out here with her. The speaker’s playing a lazy summer song, the kind that melts right into the sound of the waves. Vacation has officially started. And I’m in so much trouble.
She reads for a while, legs tucked under her, sun warm on both of us.
I pretend to look at my book, but I am watching her instead.
The way the light hits her cheekbones. The soft rise and fall of her breath.
The faint shimmer of sunscreen on her shoulders.
By the time she pushes her sunglasses up and stretches, I am already halfway gone.
“Water?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say, even though my voice feels thick.
We walk down to the shoreline, the sand cool near the waterline.
The heat clings to our skin, mixing with salt and sunscreen and coconut air.
A wave rushes forward and kisses our ankles, cold and shocking.
Rowan laughs and grabs my hands, fingers threading through mine naturally.
Like they belong there. Like they always have.
We jump through the waves together, her laughter ringing out over the surf, bright and wild. I feel the sound in my chest, in the soft places I keep locked up. She leans back against the pull of the water, hair whipping behind her, and I swear the sun itself leans in to watch her.
Another wave builds behind us, bigger than the last. I see it a second before it hits.
“Rowan,” I warn.
She shrieks as it crashes over her hip, and she stumbles forward, straight into me.
And just like that, her body is slammed up against mine.
Her slick skin slides against my chest, her hands grabbing at my shoulders for balance. Her breath rushes out against my throat. Her hair, wet and heavy, sticks to my arm. She smells like sunscreen, salt, and Rowan.
I grip her waist without thinking, the warmth of her soft against my palms, my fingers brushing her ribs.
She looks up at me, wide-eyed and breathless, her lips parted, sun catching on the tiny droplets on her lashes.
My heart punches hard. Her nose is pink from the sun.
New freckles are blooming across her cheeks.
Her eyes are a color I swear has no name, some ocean-deep shade the world has not discovered yet.
For a second, neither of us moves.