3. Tick Tock
TICK TOCK
CHLOE
Who thought it was a good idea to make lakes so cold? Or so wet? Or so slimy?
I right myself under the water, treading even though it’s not too deep. But this is no easy feat with sneakers on. But I manage, then pop my head above the surface, batting at the hair sticking to my face as I blink lake water out of my eyes.
When two strong arms wrap around my waist.
Is that…?
I look up. Sawyer’s kneeling on the dock, arms stretched into the water—and he’s lifting me out of it.
He’s hauling me up like I weigh nothing, tugging me back onto the wood slats. My soaked body smacks into his…very firm chest. Yep. I was right about the arms. Right about the chest. He’s all kinds of strong.
“I’ve got you,” he says, steady and calm, pulling me the rest of the way…right into his lap.
I’m still a little dazed—getting tackled by a rowdy partier will do that to you. But still, I manage to say, “I’m surprised you didn’t jump in after me.”
“You don’t strike me as the kind of woman who wants a man making himself the center of attention.”
Damn. He’s right. “It would have been ridiculous too, right?”
He arches a brow in a way that says he’ll go toe-to-toe with me. “Want a do-over and I’ll jump in this time?”
“Maybe I do,” I tease.
“Also, the water’s maybe three feet deep,” he says and, okay, he has a point. “Didn’t seem like you needed rescuing.”
“Spoken like a man who’s never watched Mr. Darcy emerge from the lake in Pride and Prejudice.”
His smile quirks, sexy and wry. “My white shirt is wet,” he says, plucking at the fabric. “But if you want the full Darcy moment, say the word.”
I’m more interested in his shirt now though. I glance down, and hello, six-pack. “Yes, it is.”
Then I glance at myself.
Oh. Oh no.
My white dress is soaked. And officially see-through. Of course this has happened tonight. Of course it has happened to me.
Evidently, the universe won’t let me have nice things—like a steady job, a working car, or a flirty moment with a hot guy that isn’t ruined by a public nipple situation.
Well, the water was seriously cold.
I shift, trying to adjust the sopping fabric so my peaks aren’t Mount Everesting the entire party, even through my lace bra, when a blur of bronze skin and bangles flies my way.
“Shitballs! Chloe! Are you okay?” Florence, who’s never met a foul word that isn’t improved as a compound noun, skids to a stop at the edge of the dock, flanked by a very concerned Bagel. Her lifeguard boyfriend spins around too, worry in his eyes.
I could tell Florence the truth. I’m not okay today. I got framed, then canned, and now I’m soaked, thanks to a Mastiff the size of a car. But she doesn’t really want to know that.
I fold my arms over my chest and flash a big smile as I rise. Sawyer stands too, looking much better in a wet shirt than I do.
“I’m all good,” I say to Florence, since at least I can sort of network by being super chill with the host about the whole party guest knocking me into the lake situation.
Where is the party guest? I don’t see the Mastiff nearby. Ah, there he is off in the corner with…someone. I can’t make out who it is with the sunglasses and hat, but she looks mortified as she chides her big pup.
I turn my focus back to Florence, who snaps her gaze back and forth, hunting for something, it seems. “Let me get you a towel. There must be a towel somewhere,” she says, then furrows her brow, turning to her boyfriend, who looks like he’s waiting for instructions.
“Actually, I don’t have a towel. Can you see if anyone does, hon? ”
Before her guy can even say yes, a throat clears. A voice—deep, strong, sexy—says, “I’ve got one in my car. In my gym bag. It’s clean. I’ll go get it.”
That’s nice of him, and so’s the sight of him turning around and striding across the lawn purposefully—a man determined to help in the way that he can. A man who simply takes control of the chaos, from the hands he set on my waist to tug me out, to the towel he’s fetching.
But even with a towel—and I do want one—I’ll still be wet from the tips of my hair down to my toes. Which are squishing around in my soaked socks inside my soaked sneakers. Today is really a day.
Florence is chewing on her lip. Great. Now I’ve worried a client. I make my smile bigger, like I’m so unbothered by all the shenanigans. “It’s all good. But I should go ho—”
Only, the sentence dies as reality hits. I’ll have to drive an hour or two in this soaking-wet dress.
Florence slices a hand through the air. “Nope,” she says, shaking her head firmly. “You’re not going home. I’m getting you a nice, fancy hotel room.”
“Good idea, babe,” her guy says, and he’s really nailing the supportive boyfriend brief.
“I have an account at The Resort,” Florence adds. “You can take a nice, hot shower, slide into a fluffy robe as your clothes dry, and order some outrageous room service. On me.”
That does sound nice.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say reflexively. But then—screw it. Women are always turning down nice things, and before she can take it back—I snatch up the generous offer. “But thank you. That sounds amazing.”
There’s only one issue. I parked far, far away. But I’ll just walk the half mile in my see-through clothes. Surely my pointy nips will stop pointing any second now.
Yup. Any second. Tick tock, tits.
“Let me just call the hotel manager,” Florence adds, stepping away with Bagel and her boyfriend accessory, right as my tall, dark, and still wet-shirted Mr. Darcy returns with a clean towel.
Florence stops, spins back around and says, “Yes, thank you, Sawyer. You’re a doll. So glad Juliet convinced you to come.”
“Me too,” Sawyer says, and once Florence heads off for real this time, Sawyer wraps the towel around me like a blanket, and for a second, it feels like more than just a towel.
It feels like…comfort. Like someone else handling my problems for even one night.
Something I haven’t had in a while. I relax into it, turn my face to sniff the soft fabric.
He scoffs. “You thought it was dirty?”
“No! It smells nice. Like laundry detergent,” I say, a little defensively.
“I told you it was clean,” he says, shaking his head, but he’s clearly amused, judging from the shadow of a smile on his lips.
“Maybe I just needed the proof,” I add.
He holds my gaze for a beat. “And did you get it? The proof?” It’s asked with a bit of smoke in his voice, with a dirty edge.
I lick my lips, but I’m not sure anything I’m doing in my current state is sexy, so I do a one-eighty and make a show of sniffing the towel again. A long, deep inhale. It’s clean. Spring-fresh. “I guess I proved you’re not just the brooding guy at the bar.”
“You think so?”
After I wrap the material tighter around my shoulders, I hold up a thumb and forefinger. “You’re a little gallant.”
“A little? That’s all?”
I shrug. “Like I said. You didn’t jump in.”
He rolls his eyes, then nods toward the outskirts of the park as the sun sinks down in the sky. “You want gallant? Here you go,” he says, then whirls around and grabs my pink clutch from the dock. Oh, thank god. I’d forgotten that, too, in the melee. “You need a ride somewhere?”
“My car’s about a half mile away in a garage. But Florence got me a room at a hotel nearby.”
“Perfect. I’ll be your Lyft,” he says as he hands me the clutch.
I’m impulsive, yes. Stupid, no. So before I accept, I replay Florence’s comment to Sawyer a moment ago.
She must know him through his sister. So, yes, it’ll be safe to get a ride with him.
It’s been a long damn day, and I don’t need to parade down the twilit street like a drowned rat.
Besides, this man just offered me a clean towel and a ride in his car like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
He’s the opposite of my day. And he’s looking at me like there’s no place else he wants to be right now.
Well. Maybe I am sexier in my current state than I’d thought.
With that possibility tiptoeing around me, I take the gallant—and sexy—stranger up on his offer, leaving the ridiculous party behind and heading to a very posh hotel.
Maybe I’ll do some networking there.
With that beard.