Imogen
“Do you know who lives in that house?” I ask him, settling back into the bench across from Rory. Still, my gaze refuses to leave the cliffside.
“No,” he answers casually. “I don’t really know anyone from that side of the lake.”
Come to think of it, neither do I. Most of my friends from school lived on our side, or farther back in the neighborhoods behind the lakefronts.
My mom had known a few of the south lakefront owners once.
Her friend Rachel, another family I once babysat for.
But now—after all the years I’ve been gone—I can’t name a single one.
I frown, having hoped Rory could crack Tim’s true identity—as though it would help anything.
Pulling my eyes down to his dock at the bottom of a staircase snaking against the rocky cliff, I spy a black pontoon boat and pirate flag, the latter of which is lifting faintly in the breeze.
They’re like relics. Confirmations that the same person must reside there.
A shiver dances across my skin, raising goosebumps along my bare arms. I fold inward, clutching my elbows, though I’m not sure if it’s the night air or the house that chills me. Probably both.
“Are you cold?” Rory asks, tugging one arm free of his pullover.
“A little.” I shrug. “But I don’t want your sweater,” I lie, desperate to be enveloped in his smell. “Then you’ll be cold.”
“I care more about your comfort than mine,” he admits, exposing a white T-shirt as he rips the pullover off entirely.
“Actually, Amelia should be home soon. And we agreed to pack up some more boxes tonight. So”—I tilt my head back toward our houses—“I should probably get back.”
Color the mood officially killed. But the creep in the window spoiled our budding romance anyway. Well, I think I did first when I dropped the wine. I’d rather leave Rory wanting more than allow my wandering mind to ruin the night even further.
I can tell that Rory is disappointed, as a partial frown tightens his mouth.
“Yeah, no worries,” he says. With a reluctant smile, he hands me his sweater. “At least take this until we get back up there.”
I blush, slipping it over my head in private glee.
The fabric is supple, tepid from his body, scented faintly of spice and something earthy and musky.
I watch his biceps flex under the weight of water against the rowboat’s oars, like pushing paddles through Jell-O—the opposite of aerodynamic.
The house looms behind him, trying to grab my attention—as though someone inside is waiting for me to look back.
“When are you back in Seattle?” he asks, inching us closer and closer to shore.
During dinner, I had mentioned that Amelia and I needed to finish packing up the house before moving forward with Mom’s Realtor, but I didn’t mention a day. It’s Friday, and with the weekend finally here, I’m still on track to finish by Monday morning, when the movers are scheduled to arrive.
“It’s hard to say. I’m hoping we can get the brunt of it done by the end of the weekend,” I say. “You know… so you can take me on that date. Once this is all behind me.”
“That’s right.” Rory nods, a grin crossing his face. “I wish you could stay a bit longer, though. Selfishly. Keep me company while I’m stuck here.”
“You’ll be back in Seattle before you know it. I hope.”
Instead of going back to the Holloways’ dock, upstairs, through his home, and then up the street back to mine, I ask Rory to drop me off at Mom’s dock.
He ties the rowboat to a cleat beside her three boats, and the motion-sensor light clicks on above, cutting a slice of silver through the inky night.
Without it, we’d be struggling to see a thing—as the clouds are charcoal now, swallowing the moon entirely.
“Thanks for this,” I murmur, returning his sweater. My fingers linger just a second longer than necessary, brushing his skin. “And tell your parents thanks again for dinner. I had a really nice time.”
“I know they’re crazy,” he says, waving a hand. His eyes lock on mine, that low grin curling at the edges of his mouth. “I’m glad I got to see you again.” He licks his lips, waiting, and I feel it in my chest.
The dock rocks beneath our feet, enough to throw me off balance.
I step closer, letting the wine loosen my nerves, and he closes the distance between us.
Our lips meet in a kiss that’s tender and electric all at once.
I let myself melt into my buckling knees, half tempted to invite him upstairs—but aware that Amelia might already be there.
When we break apart, I swiftly retreat with a devilish smirk. “See you later, Holloway.”
“You bet,” he says, pulling his lower lip into his mouth.
I climb the wooden staircase, solar pathway lights tracing my route and exposing the sloping garden and walkway up to the house as I trek, unable to think of anything but Rory.
My mind swirls in the heat of that kiss—but then chills as I remember Tim, or whatever his name is, watching from the house across the lake.
Was he even watching us?
I quicken my pace up the balcony steps and slide my key into the lock.
When I walk into the lit house, I hear, “Lakefront door open,” chirping from the entryway’s speaker, and I jump. My mind rushes back to last night, another chill shivering up my spine.
“Amelia?” I call.
No response. She must not be home yet.
The house is cold. I hurry to my bedroom, flipping the big light on and undressing. I move toward the window, shedding my bra and barely noticing the blinds are open. But I don’t care, as the only way anyone could see me would be through binoculars.
Or a telescope.
Next to the window, a sofa chair holds my open bag, clothes spilling out. I’m digging for black sweats and a cashmere sweater when my eye catches movement down in the yard.
Still topless, I peer down at the English knot garden on our slanted hill. Rory stands on the stone path, holding my cardigan. The one soaked in wine from the boat. I must have left it behind.
Our eyes lock. I watch his gaze travel over me, lingering on what’s exposed: my breasts to my belly button. My body hums with desire, aching to be touched by him. In a sudden decision, I wiggle my index finger to say: Come here.
Rory moves with calm confidence, disappearing toward the balcony stairs. And I hear a door open.
“Front door open,” Robot Woman says.
“It’s me!” Amelia calls.
Fuck.
She doesn’t even know she’s destroying my movie moment.
“Hey!” I shout back, throwing on clothes as fast as possible. I run to the living room as Amelia drops her purse on the kitchen counter.
“You okay?” she asks, hurriedly crossing the room toward me. “I was worried about you being alone.”
I look at the balcony to find it empty. No Rory.
After a pause, I stutter, “U-uh, yeah, all good. I just got home.”
Amelia passes me and speed-walks toward the hallway. “From where?” she asks enthusiastically. “Actually, hold that thought. I have to pee so bad,” she adds, running now.
As I move to the balcony, Rory appears behind the glass door.
“Hey,” I say, opening it. I scrunch my nose. “So… my sister just got home. Just now.”
“Ah,” he says, nodding slowly. “I understand.” He holds out my damp cardigan.
“To be continued?” I tease, gazing up at him.
“I hope so,” Rory says mischievously, before stepping across the balcony and down toward the dock.