Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
Scarlett
I’m cold. Miserable, actually. I don’t even think I can feel my toes anymore. They’re just frozen blocks on the end of my feet, and it’s all my fault because I thought I could trick Brendan into putting on a shirt if I told him I enjoyed the cold.
Instead, I froze all night because I’m too stubborn to admit the truth. That seeing him in bed with his shirt off was doing inconvenient—and definitely not friend-related—things to my heart.
I shouldn’t care whether he wears a shirt; I know I shouldn’t. But tell that to my stupid heart, which apparently has an uncontrollable weakness for Brendan Marco.
What irks me most is that while I’ve woken several times already, he apparently sleeps like a dead man who really does enjoy the arctic temperatures. I hope he wakes up with frostbite.
As the gray light of early morning peeks through the curtains, I take in his tousled, dark hair and that aggravating, bare chest.
He’s twisted up in his sheets, one arm thrown over his head, the other hanging off the bed like he’s too big for that ridiculously small pullout mattress.
Instead of counting sheep to fall asleep, I count his abs instead. When I reach six, I realize I must be severely sleep-deprived. Friends don’t count each other’s abs. Friends shouldn’t even notice them.
Frustrated, I sneak toward the bathroom, stubbing my pinky toe on the corner of my bedside table. A tiny whimper escapes before I clamp my mouth shut, hopping on one foot while trying not to wake Brendan.
The pullout bed squeaks as he rolls over and slowly sits up, stretching his arms above his head, all taut muscle and adorable messy hair.
How is it possible that he looks even better than when he got out of the Marines?
One eye cracks open. “Morning, Heart-Jammies,” he says, his eyes flitting over my pink shorts again. There’s only teasing in his eyes. Certainly nothing that suggests he sees me as anything more than a temporary girlfriend.
“Please don’t call me Heart-Jammies,” I insist, heading toward the bathroom. I don’t need his pectorals assaulting my eyes anymore.
“I thought you wanted a pet name for authenticity?” He tilts his head with that smug grin on his face.
“If you call me Heart-Jammies in public, then I will personally revive Ass Coach and make sure the entire team hears it.”
He throws his sheet off. “If you think that’s going to stop me, think again. I’ve been called much worse.” He reaches for his suitcase and pulls out a pair of swim trunks.
“Are you seriously getting up at this ungodly hour?”
“I’m always up before dawn—military habit. I’m swimming laps before the wedding shower.” He glances over at my shocked face. “Want to join me?”
I’m not sure if this is a joke or an actual invitation. “Yeah, right,” I guffaw, not meeting his eyes. The last thing I need to do is parade around in a swimsuit in front of someone who looks like that.
He stares at me another beat, his gaze making my resolve weaken. “I thought you loved swimming? Weren’t you on the swim team in high school?”
“Yeah, but I haven’t done laps for ages.” I try to remember the last time I did anything more athletic than chasing down customers who forgot their phones in the cafe.
“You should come, just for fun,” he adds with that gleam in his eyes. “You’re always telling me I need to have more fun.”
I hate that he’s using my own words against me. Who really thinks lap swimming is fun? I didn’t even like it in high school when I was actually in great shape. I was only part of the team because Eli was an exceptional swimmer and pressured me to join.
“Thanks for the invite, but I don’t want your family watching me swim slower than an eighty-year-old grandma.”
“No one will even be at the pool at this hour.” He nods toward the clock, which confirms it’s an hour when no reasonable human should be conscious. “Did you bring your suit?”
“Yes, but I was only planning on using it to rot in a beach chair.”
“Scarlett.” There’s something in his expression that tells me he’s not letting this go until I agree. “Just put on your suit.”
Part of me wants to. But the logical part reminds me that hanging around him when I don’t have to will only complicate my life further.
We’ll already be spending every waking moment together for wedding events.
And the fact that I have to share a room with him is twisting up my feelings like a tangled necklace.
“The pool is indoor and heated, perfect for laps,” he adds. “You can even use the hot tub afterwards.”
My resolve crumbles at the words hot tub.
“I’ll change in the bathroom,” I say quickly, grabbing my suit.
I’m almost to the bathroom when he adds, “Hey, did you sleep okay last night?”
I pause, thinking about how cold I was but refusing to admit it was my own fault. “I’ve slept better. How about you?”
“Actually,” he says with a sheepish grin, “the talking kept me up.”
“Talking?” I frown. “I didn’t hear anyone.”
His eyebrows rise. “You really don’t know?”
That’s when I notice the amused look on his face.
“Wait…are you referring to me?” I point at myself. “I didn’t talk in my sleep last night.”
“If you say so.” He doesn’t even try to hide his smirk.
I’ve actually talked in my sleep for years. My family can confirm—I’ve had entire conversations that I have no memory of later. It’s gotten slightly better in adulthood, usually only happening when I’m under stress.
I scoff at Brendan’s smug expression. “Listen, I hardly slept a wink between your squeaky bed and the…” I almost say cold, but correct myself. “Lumpy pillows.”
He lets out a low, raspy laugh as he pulls out some flip-flops. “Pretty sure you were having some really interesting dreams last night.”
I swallow. “Why? What did you hear?”
He lifts an eyebrow. “So you admit it?”
“I might mumble sounds that could be mistaken for words,” I say, trying to convince him.
“Well, after last night’s monologue, I can’t wait to hear what you say about me.”
“You?” I let out a humorless laugh. “What makes you think I’d talk about you in my sleep?”
“Just a hunch.” He shrugs. “Since I am your boyfriend and all.”
Crossing my arms, I tip my chin up. “Sorry to disappoint you, Brendan. But anything I say while sleeping cannot be held against me. I have a very active imagination.”
I straighten my shoulders, spinning on my heel to head for the bathroom so I can lock myself inside.
“Just for the record,” he calls through the door. “I’ll be waiting for you to prove me wrong.”
By the time I reach the pool, Brendan is already swimming laps, looking like some kind of Olympic showoff.
The muscles in his back are slick with water, rippling with every stroke as he effortlessly crosses the pool.
The sight of him leaves me all fluttery inside.
Between his fluid movements and his sculpted upper body, I’m clearly going to be a joke next to him.
I really should leave before he catches me blatantly staring.
I turn to sneak out, but he swims to the edge of the pool and pops his head up, water dripping down the rounded edges of his shoulders as he slicks back his hair.
“Hey, you’re finally here.”
Whoa. He looks like an absolute snack.
Instead of his usual stern expression, he looks pleased. It’s an oddly satisfying change to see him let his guard down.
“I think I…forgot something in my room.” I point somewhere vaguely in the direction of our room before turning to go.
“Are you trying to get out of this?” he calls after me. “Because all you really need is a swimsuit, and even that’s optional.” I whirl around just in time to catch the corner of his mouth tilting.
“I’m not here to skinny-dip, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”
“I wasn’t suggesting anything. Just making sure you weren’t leaving.”
Dang, he’s good. I’m going to have to come up with much more convincing excuses if I want to avoid him from now on.
He folds his forearms on the pool edge, giving me a perfect view of the tattoo on his forearm.
It looks like a rose, with a tiny script underneath.
He doesn’t seem like the flower-tattoo type, which makes me curious about the story behind it.
Maybe it’s for an ex-girlfriend—someone from his Marine days.
He shifts his arms, hiding the tattoo.
“You’re killing it swimming solo. I’d hate to mess up your rhythm,” I say, making no move to remove my cover-up. It’s safer up here. “I’ll just supervise from the pool deck.”
“Someone looks like they need to get in the pool,” he says, then waits for my next move. “Unless they want to be thrown in.”
“Brendan Marco, you wouldn’t dare.”
“Remember back when you’d refuse to get in the ocean?” He lifts himself out of the pool, every muscle flexing impressively.
“That was different.” I’m suddenly concerned that he’s actually serious. “The ocean can be freezing!”
“Good thing this isn’t the ocean, then.” He starts toward me and I suddenly panic that he’s not kidding.
“Wait—” I back up, wondering if I can make it to the door before he can. “We’re not in high school anymore…”
He ignores my pleas, just like when he’d scoop me off my beach towel and carry me into the waves.
He stops directly in front of me, and I track a droplet of water making a path down his abs.
“We’re friends, right?” I say, part challenge, part plea. “And I’m pretty sure there’s a rule that says friends don’t throw friends in the pool.”
“Hmm,” he says, his face thoughtful. “I think the friend code actually requires it.”
I switch tactics and paste on an innocent smile.
“I’ll take off my cover-up over here, then.
” I point at the pool chair, pretending to sidestep before I turn to run.
But he anticipates my escape and catches me in his arms before I make it six feet.
He scoops me up while I flail helplessly against his wet body.
“Okay, I’ll get in!” I shout. “Just put me down.”
“Promise?”
“I swear, Brendan.”
I stop fighting as he studies my face. “You know, Rossi, if you break your promise, there will be consequences.”