Chapter 11
Rowan
“Whoop! Take that, spider babies!”
I jerk around to where Jason is bobbing a ridiculous distance out from the dock and at almost a right angle from where he dove in.
“Jason, you scared the shit out of me!”
“Worried about me, huh?” he calls, pushing his slicked hair from his face.
My arms cross.
Treading water, he watches me.
I can’t tell if it’s a look of amusement or annoyance or some other expression I don’t know him well enough to read. All I know is that he’s okay, and my relief is genuine.
He swims closer, arms pulling through the water with languid ease. And then he’s climbing up the ladder, beads of moisture glistening from the fringe of his lashes, a Superman curl above his brow, as half the lake streams over the bronzed skin of his heavily muscled chest.
Down the stacks of way more abdominal definition than I believed could exist in nature.
And lower through the perfect line of masculine hair disappearing into the white, soaked fabric of his underwear… which is not only dangerously close to transparent in its sodden state, but clinging to— everything.
This guy looks like he just stepped out of a cologne commercial.
Stop. Staring.
I’m going to. Except I can’t because then, completely unconcerned with his might-as-well-be-naked state, he starts to stretch out his shoulders and arms, and geez. What it does to the rest of his chest and abs is… well, spectacular enough to keep my eyes above his— nope, never mind, it’s not.
“Another missed opportunity to take me out of the equation. Rough day, Rowan,” he teases as he collects his abandoned shorts and sneakers.
Forcing my attention to the distant shore and the cloud-studded sky above as he pulls them on, I shake my head with a sigh. “Nah. I was ready to jump in and save you.”
He quirks a brow in my periphery. “Really?”
“Yep.” I start walking up the path. “But don’t get all sentimental about it. Something happens to you, pretty sure I’d be the only suspect. Motive is a thing.”
He matches me step for dripping step. “To get the island, uncontested.”
I laugh. “As if. I’m talking about that stunt with the broken lock, bucko.”
I can hear the smile in his voice. “Oh, yeah. That’s legit. In fact, I’m pretty sure they’d call it justifiable.”
We’re halfway up the path when I give in to the dark impulse I can’t fight a minute longer. Glancing back, I casually offer, “Did you know some spiders can hold their breath for hours?”
Jason trips.
Day made.
Jason
She’s the devil.
Temptation incarnate with her wicked little cackle and that taunting raised brow. How can one look leave me fighting the urge to chase her down and—
Just stop, man. Stop.
At the top of the hill, Rowan returns to her bucket of sticks.
Inside, I change into some dry clothes and throw my wet stuff in the hamper. The shirt belongs to the baby spiders now.
A few texts from the guys have come through.
Wexler and Huska asking if the lawyer sorted everything out. Wexler offered to come back, and if I didn’t know what a good guy he was, I might wonder if it was more about getting a break from Lattner than making sure I was okay.
I catch them up and let them know I’m good. Tell them I’m going to kick their asses for sharing that video of Rowan taking me down.
The light clack of the screen door alerts me that she’s in the cabin now. Moving around, running water, crossing the creaky floorboard in front of the utility room.
Having her here feels like it should be harder than this. More like it was during those painfully awkward months after she moved in or through the few stilted exchanges when I came home for a visit… before I stopped coming home at all.
But it wasn’t that way at all. When she offered to help with the shed, she’d been rubbing her hands together, smiling like she couldn’t wait to get them dirty. It was cute and kind and reminded me of how she was always so eager to help when we were both back home in South Dakota.
I’d thought maybe she had something to prove. Like she didn’t want anyone to think she was lazy or taking advantage… not that anyone had.
But today she brought that same relentless energy and more.
This morning passed in a blur of activities as familiar as snaking the puck off an opposing player’s stick. And no matter what odd job we found ourselves doing, somehow we kept falling into the kind of easy conversation that made me forget that we aren’t actually friends and never really have been.
And in a matter of days, she’s going to be gone from my life for good.
Why does that feel so wrong?
I find Rowan in front of the built-in shelves that serve as the divider between the kitchen and living room.
Her weight is shifted to one leg, the other cocked a bit behind her as she surveys the old bottles, oddly shaped jugs, and miscellaneous glassware we’ve been collecting since my great-grandparents built the place.
Her arms are bare. One hanging at her side, a small bouquet of wildflowers within her grasp. The other in a loose fold above her head.
She peers over her shoulder at me, the move so unconsciously sexy, she looks like she should be in a painting or on the cover of some sophisticated photography magazine— grass-stained shorts, graphic tee, and all.
“Just grabbing a vase for these.”
“Knock yourself out.” I cut behind her to where my water glass from this morning is still on the breakfast bar.
She picks a brown jug with a tiny mouth from the second shelf, examines it, and then sets it down again.
I take a drink and read a text from Bruce.
When I look up again, she’s considering the ancient Coke bottle I found with Gramps in his dad’s shed on the other side of the island.
It doesn’t make the cut.
I tell myself to stop staring at her neck and the windblown curls that have escaped her ponytail.
“Bruce texted. Sounds like the lock guy has one more job before us and then he’ll be over. Couple hours, tops.”
She continues studying the shelves in search of the perfect vase. She’s got her eyes on the top one when she answers, “That’s good news.”
“Sure you’ll appreciate having your own space tonight.” And then, because I really need to stop making assumptions, I add, “If you’re still planning on staying.”
She stills, then gives me an apologetic look. “I have to stay. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. I understand.” Besides, that relief that was nowhere to be found when I thought she’d be leaving this morning?
It’s decided to join the party. Fucker.
She’s looking up at the top shelf again. It’s too high. This cabin wasn’t built for average-sized women. It was built for generation upon generation of above-average-sized men.
Only the way she’s got her eyes on it…
Yep. And she’s pushing to her toes, long legs extending, fingers straining for the mason jar with the waffle-patterned glass that’s still inches beyond her reach.
I swallow.
Take a breath.
The hem of her T-shirt creeps up.
And up.
I don’t even realize I’ve closed the distance between us until my hands land on her waist, covering that soft, bare stretch of skin. And before that startled little gasp is past her lips, I hoist her up.
She shoots me a questioning look.
Coughing a short laugh, I shake my head. “Just take it. Top shelf on the right. I know you saw it.”
She nods and then reaches overhead, the motion causing her T-shirt to rise even higher, damn it.
Rowan carefully extracts the ancient jar from its shelf and murmurs a quiet, “Okay.”
I lower her gently, keeping my hands loose at her waist as she steadies herself.
It’s time to let go. Time to rub my palms over some gravel in the hopes of overwriting the feel of her skin beneath mine before it’s permanently stored in my memory bank.
But then she’s turning within my hold, peering up at me with soft brown eyes that lock me in place.
The shelves are behind her.
I’m too close, towering over her, but somehow it feels like I’m not close enough.
Shit!
I stuff my hands into my pockets, turning away before that once-coveted eye contact scrambles the signals to my brain any more than it already has.
Rowan darts around me with a quick thank you as she goes to fill her vase at the sink.
Leaving her to her flowers, I head out back through the utility room.
I need some air, some space. I need to go jump in the lake again to cool off.
I need to stop acting like some lovestruck sixteen-year-old kid without the sense to realize this isn’t a fucking game. Even if it was, Rowan and I aren’t playing for the same team… and her coach is a damn cheater.