Chapter 8
Eight
There’s no off-switch for Reese.
“Aspen must be psychic, ’cause you were all over my dreams last night.”
Sleep-creased, pillow lines stamped across his face, and still he manages to bring some game to the table.
Dylan’s musings aren’t far from my own.
“Do you ever give it a rest?” The delivery is too laidback for it to land as a gripe. “It’s too early for this Hallmark-bullshit.”
Blue eyes spark as they catch mine. “It’s happy hour somewhere, no?”
All smirks and mischief, that’s Reese. Nothing like the country-club boys I grew up with, the ones who treat not interested like a challenge.
It’s refreshing. The only reason I volley back is because we both know exactly where it lands.
Friends. Only friends. Set in stone without either of us needing to say it.
“Come on. Is that the best you can do?”
“I’m rusty, darling. It’s been a hot minute since my last relationship.” He eyes me over the rim of his glass. “Why don’t we skip the bullshit talking stage and head straight to the altar?”
To my left, Aspen shakes her head.
“Why do I get the feeling you’re using me for nefarious purposes, Mr. Silivano?”
Hand to his chest, he looks mock-offended. “I’d never. But…” He takes a deliberate bite. “If I were… could you honestly blame me?”
“He has a point,” Dylan chimes in, his lingering stare on Aspen pulling colour from her cheeks. “You both did good.”
Right on cue, she deflects. “You’re giving me too much credit.”
I’ve noticed this about her. Praise hits her like static, never absorbed.
Yesterday, when I marveled at her model-like height and the features to match, she looked at me like I’d spun the biggest lie. Something about that reaction still sticks.
“It was your idea,” I point out. “Your efforts. You literally arranged all of this.”
She doesn’t answer. Just untucks a strand of hair from her ear, as if that can hide the blush.
It doesn’t.
“They’re right, Aspen.” The voice cuts in from directly opposite me. “Don’t sell yourself short.”
Carson. His first words in forever. If not for the way he’s sprawled confidently, legs half-stretched under the table and nearly brushing mine, I might have forgotten he was here.
Though… that’s not exactly true, is it?
He might wear his usual impossible-to-read exterior, but beneath it something stirs. A current. A charge I’ve felt more than once while sitting here, prickling against my skin.
Whether his lack of commentary has anything to do with me, I can’t say. The others have taken it in stride though, so I haven’t bothered overthinking it. After all, he’s the one who told me to stay.
“Okay,” she relents at last. “Glad you all like it.”
“We love it,” Dylan corrects, still focused entirely on her.
“We’re guys. We’ll eat drywall if it’s seasoned right.”
There’s a thump under the table, and Dylan’s rewarded to a side-eye.
“But yeah,” Reese continues, flashing a grin, “this is the shit, Penny. Appreciate the gesture. How’d you two meet again? You found Brielle’s phone?”
“Carson did,” she corrects.
Reese twists his neck, throwing over a knowing smirk.
“Of course he did. Opportunities to be a hero just fall right into his lap. Our very own Good Samaritan.”
I don’t catch my expression in time.
“What?” Reese teases. “You have a different impression of my guy?”
He’s not really asking, I know, but I still find myself turning to Carson.
What I don’t expect is for him to already be watching me.
Head tilted. Eyes steady. Waiting.
Does he want me to answer?
I settle back against the spindle-back chair. “I guess I do.”
Only the second it’s out, I want to pull it back.
Because it doesn’t feel entirely true.
Sure, he was quick to freeze me out after burning so bright at first, but since I’ve met him he’s been lending me a hand. I thumb the edge of my freshly applied bandage. But it’s not just that.
Walking me back to the beach-house.
Setting out a plate for me.
In hindsight, it’s not much, just basic decency really. But experience has taught me not to expect even that.
“Actually, you’re right.” I lift a hand, like I’ve caught myself mid-slip. Wrong of me to let the in-between moments of coldness cloud my judgment. “Sorry. I was just remembering some things. You’re right, he does have that streak.”
He wasn’t expecting me to backtrack. Grey eyes turn scrutinising and even his stoic expression falters into a faint frown. Like the thought of me seeing him as anything other than cold unsettles him. Probably does. Probably thinks I’ll mistake civility for something more, something like flirting.
I think I’m quick to hide my amusement, but the warning signs flashing back at me say otherwise.
“I wouldn’t need that streak if you weren’t so reckless.”
The retort bites, hard enough to earn a a few looks, but I keep my focus steady on him.
Keep my focus steady on him because, for the first time in weeks, there’s movement inside me. Not grief. Not dread. Just… something alive. Small, but enough to crack through the numbness, and even though I can’t tell if it’s positive or dangerous, I let it in.
“Is that what you don’t like about me?” Someone like you, he’d said. “I’m too reckless?”
He’s not wrong. Even I can admit on my worst days, I’m speeding toward a cliff’s edge, ready to free fall.
But if I recall, he’s no stranger to poor decisions either.
“Guess it’s a trait we share.”
I catch every reaction in my periphery, but no one interrupts… whatever this is.
He tilts his head slightly, like I’ve spoken in another language. “I don’t follow.”
He’s lying. I know, because even with his face schooled into stone, I feel it. The deliberate press of his leg against mine.
I could heed the warning. Maybe shift topics, a play that might repair the rift between us, but this tangible tension? This strange, live-wire current between us?
It fuels something I thought was long gone.
And no one resists an awakening.
“Oh, you don’t?” Sinewy muscles tighten where his leg is unrelenting against mine. “I’d say swimming out past three a.m., with barely anyone around, qualifies as pretty reckless, no? And I’m sure I’m not the only one who’d say that.”
The fourth wall shatters and Carson’s leg instantly retracts. The feeling of wanting it back is fleeting, disappearing under the look Dylan turns on him.
“You were doing what?”
“It’s no biggie,” he swiftly counters. “I’m an experienced swimmer.”
“It doesn’t matter how experienced you are when visibility’s near zero. Add in unpredictable currents and you’d be fucked.” All trace of Reese’s usual ease is gone. “How long have you been doing this?”
He looks at me like I’m keeping a logbook, but I’ve barely been in Grove three days. I don’t even know Carson.
And maybe I should feel guilty for throwing him under the bus, but I don’t. Reese is right. One rogue wave and he’s gone. Experience doesn’t matter when the ocean decides otherwise.
“Not often,” he says it to the room, but the next words slip quietly, almost unwillingly, in my direction. “Only when I can’t sleep.”
For a beat, our eyes lock. Unspoken. Mutual.
Join the club.
“Carson.” Concern tints the syllables.
“Aspen.” He’s still the centre of something brewing, but the edges of her name come softer.
“You’re pushing yourself too far.”
The inaudible sigh that follows tells me they’ve been here before.
Dylan’s having none of it. “She’s right,” he clips. “You’re training with the club team, then swimming again when we get back. Even the daytime doubles were a stretch. But night swims? You should be getting at least ten hours of sleep, man.”
Training? Club team?
The words bounce around my skull, loud in the sudden quiet. And then it lands. Swimmers. They’re swimmers.
I’m not sure why it didn’t come up in yesterday’s college talk with Aspen and Reese, where I learned they’re all a year ahead of me, but it doesn’t shock me. Not with the image of Carson slicing through open water still vivid in my mind.
Judging by Dylan’s scolding and the way Reese is nodding, they’re serious.
Like training-regimen, no-days-off serious.
If I had to guess? At least D2.
But the way Carson moved—efficient, effortless—it felt like D1.
And that’s insanely impressive. I know exactly how much, because my twin—
Just like that, my spine loses its rigidity. Whatever spark, snuffed. I keep eating, like nothing’s happened, even as the conversation persists around me.
“I’ve got it under control,” Carson says, but it’s distracted.
It’s meant for Reese, so why is he looking at me when I glance up?
That ghost of a frown barely exists, but when all I do is plainly stare back, it becomes corporeal.
Across the table, Dylan looks ready to fire back, but a single look at Aspen undoes him. The edge blunts, agitation fading into apology
He’s not the only one reading the room. Reese leans back, charm slipping in again like second nature. “Anyway. We got off track. What do you say, Brielle. You, me, and a date with the ocean this afternoon?”
Aspen’s barely-there sigh of relief sparks guilt where Carson’s loosely disguised frustration couldn’t. My point was definitely valid, but there’s a time and a place—and Aspen’s carefully curated meal wasn’t it.
I make a mental note to apologise later, when it’s just us. For now, all I can do is reset the mood, and humour’s my only currency.
“That’s your idea of a first date? Oh, to be a man. I can’t think of anything worse as a girl.” Or anything worse, period.
“Exactly,” Aspen agrees. “Guys somehow end up looking better, while us girls…”
“Worse for wear,” I finish.
“Come on,” Reese says. “Have a little confidence, ladies.”
“It’s not about confidence. Wet hair just isn’t a look on me. You, though”—she angles her spoon my way—“probably still look flawless. You always do.” She squints. “Are you a natural?”
I nod.
“Serious? That’s, like, the perfect shade of blonde.”
It’s not the first time I’ve heard that, but the acid it stirs in my throat is new. I wash it down with orange juice, but it’s bittersweet and useless.
It’s not fair how quickly the tides can switch.
Once, I loved the attention. Loved that my Danish roots gave me this pale blonde shade—darker in the underlayers, where the sun can’t reach. Keeping it long was my choice; keeping it healthy was years of strict routine.
But now? Now I literally want to bury my head in the sand.
All I see is her.
The words snag thorny inside but I force them out. “Yup. Natural. You?” Maybe there’s a hitch, but no one notices.
No one except… Carson.
His leg grazes mine, light, light enough that it could’ve been accidental, but I have a hunch nothing he does falls into that category. He’s too controlled for that, even if he presents a completely different picture in the ocean.
I don’t give in to his silent demand. I already know what waits there. Liar, etched in the curl of his mouth. He’ll chalk the stumble up to vanity, to me lying about my hair. Let him. Better that than the truth.
Because a mask can only hold so long, and mine’s riddled with weak spots.
Aspen twirls a strand of her hair. “Yeah, mine’s untouched too.” Instead of leaving it there, she presses on. “What length is yours? I don’t think I’ve seen it down.”
I’m glad my hand stays steady when I point chest-high. Not so glad when I feel Carson’s stare press heavier on me, branding me a liar. My hair was down the other night—and definitely longer than what I’m pointing to.
But he doesn’t call me out.
“Pretty.”
She looks like she’s going to say more, but thankfully a ringtone interrupts her.
Carson’s phone. His face goes eerily still at whatever name he reads.
Dylan cranes his neck as Carson stands. “All good?”
“Yeah.” Except it doesn’t sound like it. His whole frame is a network of stiff lines. “Gotta take this.”
A pause hangs after he leaves for the back deck, and Reese is first to fill the gap.
“So, Brielle, you never answered my question. Swimming date?”
Oh, to hell with it. “I can’t swim.”
I feel the brunt of three shocked stares.
“What?” Reese is full of disbelief. “How come?”
I guess I feel a little guilty after spewing all those lies. That’s the only reason I say it. “I’m scared.”
“Why?” Dylan asks. “The water’s the best place to be.”
“And you’re spending the whole summer here?” Aspen adds. “Bummer.”
“Uh-huh.” An idea sparks, and I take in the two men across the table. “You’re swimmers, right?”
They nod.
“Instead of a swimming date… if you’re willing to help, why don’t you teach me?”
Reese raises an eyebrow. “How inexperienced are we talking?”
“Inexperienced,” I admit. “I can float—had a few lessons—but I’m still… scared. I think I’m better now, though.” I don’t mention I only had that revelation less than twenty-four hours ago.
“Sure. Why not?” I’m stunned by how easily I get a yes. “We can hit one of the nearby pools.”
“No.” My refusal is instant.
“…No?”
“Can we start in the ocean? I’ve tried the pool so many times before, but—” I shake my head, withholding the rest. The stuff that still stings more than the chlorine. But everyone’s looking at me like I’m crazy, so I give another reason, hoping they’ll accept it.
“My logic is… if I tackle a pool first, I’ll have to tackle the ocean again. So why not start in the deep end and get it over with? I’m not expecting to be a pro, just to learn the basics.”
He looks unsure.
“Please?”
In the end, he relents.
“Go on then.”