Heat Of The Moment

Chapter 1

Callie

“Where’s the aux?”

Brad’s yelling from somewhere in the kitchen, tearing through drawers like we’ll all die without music.

I’m barefoot, still in my blue-and-white-striped pajama shorts and Mitch’s oversized hoodie that I stole last night, my hair is tied up in a knot. I find myself blinking against the morning sun coming through the blinds of the wide cabin windows.

Luke and Maddie are curled up on the couch, tangled in a patchwork quilt and pretending they’re sleep even though we all know they’re making out under there.

It smells like the lake. The leftover bonfire smoke lingers on our bodies, along with Hungry Jack syrup, citronella candles, and black coffee.

And somehow, even though we’d only been high school graduates for about twelve hours, everything already feels different. Like this is already going to be the best summer yet.

Macy pulls out a pack of bacon and carton of eggs from the fridge, and I volunteer to throw together a fruit salad.

“Who butchered my watermelon?” I mutter, my head halfway in the fridge, shuffling through a mix of beer bottles and half-lidded containers we crammed in here around ten o’clock last night.

“That was me,” Brad’s low voice calls out as he sits on one of the rickety old barstools on the other side of the kitchen island.

“You cut up watermelon last night? Where was I?” I laugh.

He shrugs. “Playing Phase 10 or something.”

Macy points a fork at him, raw egg goo falling off the end and onto the floor. “It was Old Maid,” she corrects.

“My bad. You’re lucky I even knew it was a card game,” he mutters, lifting the red solo cup to his lips. Only to crinkle his face and spit it back out.

“That was not water,” he says.

We laugh at him and I assess the watermelon in front of me, trying to figure out the easiest way to cut it without making a huge mess or wasting it.

Luke and Maddie finally get up after Macy hollers out that breakfast will be ready in less than five minutes. They shove the blanket off to the side. Maddie runs her hands through her knotted, long dirty-blonde hair and fixes her red tank top before joining us.

Luke eyes everyone. “Mitch in the bathroom?”

“No, still asleep,” I say.

I went and looked a few minutes ago. The guys’ bedroom door was open, and he was laying on his sleeping bag on the floor. Shirtless, sporting only his boxers and messy brown hair. One hand was tossed above his head, the other resting across his bare chest.

There are two bedrooms in this place, not counting the loft, but no one ever sleeps up there. Us girls take one room, while the guys take the other across the hall. We all share the bathroom in between. It’s nothing fancy, but it works.

The cabin itself is old…like, built-in-the-1900s old.

Everything is frozen in time. The kitchen’s straight out of another decade—paneled wood walls, off-white-and-brown-patterned linoleum floors, avocado-green cabinets, a rickety fan whirring in the corner.

There’s an old calendar from 1998 still hanging by the fridge.

The couches in the living room don’t match, neither does any of the wooden furniture. In the corner sits The Chair.

Everyone knows not to sit in The Chair.

An ugly brown, orange, and yellow flannel-patterned thing that mostly just collects dust. Lean back too far and it’ll take you down with it.

The shades and curtains are from the eighties. Even the board games under the coffee table are old, outdated versions.

“Alright, can someone toss down a hot pad,” Macy directs, walking across the floor with the cast iron skillet in both hands, mismatched mitts holding each side.

“I got it,” Luke offers, pulling open a drawer.

I look to Brad. “Go wake Mitch.”

“On it.” He spins around on the stool and disappears down the hall.

A minute later, Mitch drags himself out like he’s crawling back from the dead—still shirtless, gym shorts slung low on his hips, hair still a complete disaster. He doesn’t say anything at first, just squints against the sunlight and heads straight for the coffeepot.

“Morning, sunshine,” Macy teases.

Mitch grunts as he fills a mug and drops into the chair directly across from me at the table.

He takes a sip, eyes still half-closed, then finally lifts his head and looks at me. Not just a glance—he stares for a beat too long, his eyes dragging from my face to the hoodie I’m wearing.

“What?” I ask, blinking at him.

He nods at my chest. “Isn’t that my sweatshirt?”

I glance down at the navy hoodie, the sleeves bunched around my hands. “Yeah.”

He just shakes his head, muttering into his cup. “I don’t even remember giving that to you.”

“You didn’t.” I smirk, reaching for a piece of watermelon. “I took it.”

“Figures.”

“Maybe don’t smoke a half a bottle of Jack next time,” Brad pipes up from the sink, “and you’d remember how half your clothes went missing.”

“Shut up.” Mitch groans, dragging a hand over his face. “I’m a lightweight. Old news.”

Luke laughs. “You say that like it’s not the reason we make you drink.”

Mitch flips him off, and I tuck my legs up in the chair and sip my coffee, hiding my grin behind the rim of my mug. Mitch might be grumpy and sleep-deprived, but he’s still attractive. And even though he’s pretending not to stare at me in his sweatshirt, he absolutely is.

And I’m definitely not complaining.

* * *

John Mellancamp is blasting through the boat speakers and Luke is driving surprisingly well for having Maddie in his lap.

Brad’s beside me, Mitch and Macy on the other side, and the wind is blowing every strand of hair I have in my face. But I love it. The smell of the lake water, the air, the sun shining down. If freedom had a distinct feeling, it would be this.

“Who wants to tube?” Luke asks as we enter a no wake zone. Everyone looks at each other. “How ’bout you?” He looks up at Maddie and tickles her gently. She giggles, of course, and shakes her head.

I catch Macy’s face, eyes rolling and looking off into the distance. She can’t stand how handsy they are with each other. I can’t either, it’s annoying and gross, but Mace really can’t stand it.

“I’ll go. With Callie,” Brad says, and before I can object, he’s pulling me up out of my seat.

The water is cold at first but then it’s nice. I always hate that initial shock when jumping in.

“What side you want?” Brad asks when we get the tube.

“I don’t care.”

“Then you take the left,” he says and hoists himself up. I follow, wrapping my hands around the yellow handles. A nervous knot settles in my stomach. I don’t want to get thrown. I did one time and it hurt my back so much I could hardly walk the next day.

“Go slow!” I yell just as we reach the end of the temporary no wake zone. Luke picks up the speed and looks back once more.

“Yeah, yeah. You guys good?” he yells, tossing up a thumb.

“All good!” Brad yells back with a thumbs-up.

“Don’t be scared. He’s not gonna throw you around. If it was just me, that would be different.”

I give Brad a look, but he just grins like a menace. He’s the wild card of the group—always has been. There’s no telling if he’ll yank me off this tube with his weight or just sit back and enjoy the ride. I’m hoping for the second option, but I prepare for the first.

The boat jerks forward and we’re off, skipping across the water as Mellencamp turns into Credence Clearwater Revival, which then fades into the air and the wind becomes our soundtrack.

My feet brush through the water, and the mist from the wake splashes up in our faces.

Luke’s not going too fast, which I appreciate. The sun reflects off the rippling surface, and everything glows golden and perfect. There’s something about summer that makes even the smallest things feel bigger. Better. Like this isn’t just tubing—it’s memory making.

When the boat slows and we drop into the water again, I tilt my head toward Brad. “That wasn’t bad.”

“You doubted me?” he asks, water dripping down his face.

“Yes. Always.”

He laughs, flipping back off the tube into the water like he’s in a movie. I splash him once and he lunges at me, both of us laughing like idiots. The kind of laughing that makes your stomach hurt.

Eventually, we all climb back up onto the boat, soaked and breathless. Mitch helps me up with one hand, and his fingers wrap around mine a second longer than they need to. Our eyes catch for a second too.

I look away first.

He says nothing—just tosses me a towel. Then he walks away like nothing happened.

Like he didn’t try to kiss me last night when everyone else was already heading to bed.

His breath had smelled like beer and beef jerky, and he was close enough that I could see the freckle above his lip.

His hand had hovered just long enough at my waist that I knew what he was about to do before I turned away.

And he clearly doesn’t remember any of it.

Which is fine.

Totally fine.

I wrap the towel around myself and sink back onto the bench seat beside Maddie, who hands me my sunglasses and raises a knowing eyebrow.

“I saw that,” she says under her breath.

“Saw what?”

She just smirks and looks out at the water. “You gonna tell him?”

“Nope.”

And I won’t. Because if he doesn’t remember, it doesn’t matter.

At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.