Chapter 8 Finn #2
Stunned too stupid to string two words together, I watch in mesmerized awe as Rosie positions her toes on the edge of the dock, flexes her muscled legs, and launches into a shallow dive. She breaks the surface of the water with grace, then pops her head back up with a rapturous smile.
“Are you serious?” I cross my arms and try to look stern, but I’m too captivated by this version of her. “Anyone could see you. You know that, right?”
She laughs and lies back until the slopes of her breasts lift out of the water, moving her arms in wide arcs and kicking her toes to make little surface splashes.
“I’m not in public,” she says. “But even if I were, nobody knows I’m here. Do you know what a miracle that is? Do you not understand what that means?”
Dakota barks again and spins in an excited circle, her tail whipping back and forth.
I do know what Rosie means and I also know she’s right.
I can’t imagine a time she’s ever felt safe enough to swim naked in a river, and as her protector, it’s my job to worry while she lets go of her fears.
I need to measure these moments clinically.
Professionally. Neutrally. I’ve done it before, I can do it again, and part of me is fine with it.
The other part of me is, well… hard.
“Come on, girl!” Rosie sends light sprays of water toward Dakota. “Come swimming with Rosie!”
My heavy Lab hurls herself off the dock with a lot less finesse and a lot more impact than the global superstar waiting in the water. Rosie laughs again, a musical sound that ricochets off the river and the trees and even the sky.
“How about you?” she asks.
“Me?” I shake my head with a chuckle. “No.”
She splashes me, harder than she did Dakota, and I step back with water soaking my shirt and dripping from my hair.
“Oh, come on.” She slaps her hand over her eyes. “If you’re shy, I won’t look.” Her fingers part so she can peek out between them. “I promise.”
I snort. “You’d look,” I argue, and at her impish grin, I know I’m right.
“The water’s wonderful,” she says in a singsong voice meant to lure me in. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”
I peel off my wet T-shirt and drop it onto the pile of flannel, then remove my jeans. I laugh low and husky at the devilish glint in her eyes, but there’s no way I’m getting in that water. Self-control is one thing. Self-destruction is another altogether. The trick is to find the middle ground.
When I lower myself to the edge of the dock and dangle my feet in the water instead of diving in after her, Rosie pouts and splashes me again. “Spoil sport.”
I reach down and splash her back. “You’ll get over it.”
The next half an hour spans a hundred years.
Dakota lasts no more than half that time before she paddles up to the shore, then circles back to drop her sopping-wet hulk onto the dock beside me.
She watches the water with a lolling tongue, and I pretend to be fascinated by the tree line on the far bank as I wait for Rosie to finish her swim.
In reality, I’m in knots every time her magnificent ass pops out of the water or when she bounces high enough to reveal the wet, furled peaks of her incredible tits.
I cool my jets by listing all the reasons I’m on the dock and not in the water with my hands tangled in her hair and her legs wrapped around my waist.
She’s practically a client. She just broke up with someone and she’s vulnerable. She belongs in a Los Angeles mansion, not a shack in Sonoma Valley, and she’s way too special for a simple guy like me. So many reasons to keep my hands to myself.
When the show is finally over, Rosie swims toward the ladder at the side of the dock and pulls herself out of the water with a gratified sigh. I’m waiting with the flannel held out to wrap her up and my eyes focused on a ribbon of white clouds just over her head.
“That was fantastic,” she says as she slips her arms into the sleeves.
“Glad you enjoyed yourself.” I frown at her chattering teeth. “Now how about a hot shower before you catch a cold?”
Rosie fastens the final button on her shirt and plants her hands on her hips, then hits me with a grin that takes my breath away.
She’s always been radiant—there’s a reason Rosie’s so successful; she’s got it, whatever it is—but I’ve never seen her more beautiful than she is now. Soaked in river water. Wearing my old shirt. Happy. Untroubled. And smiling prettily enough to make my heart race.
“Fine,” she says, and just when I think I’ve scored an easy win, she drops her head to one side. “And after I shower, how about I make us an early dinner?”
I clear the groan from my throat. “Sounds… like a plan.”
“Great!”
Rosie spins on her heel and heads up to the cabin, and Dakota trails after her without a backward glance. As I lament the fact that my best friend has dropped me for a prettier prospect, a puddle of red lace catches my eye. This time I don’t try to mask my moan.
I consider leaving Rosie’s panties on the wooden planks, but then swipe them up and ball them in my fist as I follow her to the cabin.
I’ll figure out a way to sneak them back into her belongings.
Drop them in one of those shopping bags or something.
It’ll be like this never happened. Because she might be brilliant, she might be beautiful, but Rosalie Thorne’s also fucking complicated. And I don’t do complicated.