6. Jude
JUDE
She stepped through the glass doors and my brain just—left. Packed a bag, caught a flight, gone.
Turquoise fabric stretched across curves that shouldn't be legal.
Freckles scattered across bare shoulders.
Red hair catching the sunlight. The bikini covered approximately nothing, and she walked toward us like she owned every inch of this island, like she'd been doing this her whole life instead of five seconds ago.
I was floating in the pool. Zero thoughts, maximum relaxation, living my best life. Then Nora appeared in that bikini and every coherent thought I possessed evacuated the premises.
I straightened in the water. My arms dropped. My mouth opened and nothing came out because my vocabulary had also abandoned ship.
Cade stopped mid-sentence. Just—stopped. His jaw went tight and his eyes tracked her like she was the only thing in the world worth looking at.
Rhett went completely still. Hands frozen on the edge of the pool. Staring.
Good. So it wasn't just me.
I heard her with my brothers. They know I did. Walls don't mean much when you're making the sounds she made last night, when Cade's headboard was hitting the wall in a rhythm that told me exactly what was happening. When she moaned long and loud by the jacuzzi.
They've had her. I haven't.
And now she's walking toward the pool in a bikini that makes my chest tight and my thoughts scatter, and all I can think is: my turn.
She walks past Cade. Brushes close enough that her arm grazes his. His eyes follow her, dark and focused, and I catch the smallest curve of his mouth. Pride, maybe. Satisfaction. Like he put her in that bikini himself.
She reaches the edge of the pool and dips one foot in. Tests the water. Her toes are painted coral pink and I have no idea why I'm noticing that except I'm noticing everything about her right now and my brain refuses to prioritize.
"Water's perfect," I manage. My voice comes out rougher than I meant. "You coming in, or are you just gonna stand there looking incredible?"
She glances at me. Smiles. Steps down into the shallow end.
The water hits her thighs, her hips, her stomach. She gasps at the cold and I watch goosebumps rise across her freckled arms. Watch her sink lower until the water reaches her chest and the turquoise fabric goes darker where it's wet.
I need to do something. Say something. Move. Make a joke. Be the fun one, the loud one, the guy who fills silence with noise and energy and momentum because that's what I do, that's who I am.
Instead I just stand here in the water and stare at her like I've never seen a woman before.
"Challenge accepted," she'd said earlier. Looked me dead in the eye and said it like she meant it, like she was daring me to follow through.
Fine.
I swim toward her. Close the distance in three strokes. Stand in front of her in the shallow end where the water only reaches my waist but comes up to her chest, and she has to tilt her head back to meet my eyes.
"You wore the bikini," I say.
"You told me to."
"I didn't think you actually would."
Her smile goes sharper. "You underestimate me."
"Love, I wouldn't dream of it."
The word slips out natural, easy, like I've been calling her that my whole life instead of just now, just this second, standing in a pool with the sun on my shoulders and her freckles right there in front of me.
She doesn't flinch. Doesn't comment. Just looks at me with those blue eyes and I swear I can see the laughter hiding behind them, waiting.
The music's still going. Something upbeat and ridiculous, the kind of song that makes you want to move even if you have no rhythm. I grin.
"Dance with me."
"In the pool?"
"Best place for it. You fall, the water catches you. It's science."
She laughs. Actually laughs, and the sound hits me square in the chest and settles there, warm and permanent.
I grab her hand. Pull her closer. Start moving.
And listen—I'm not a good dancer. Never have been. I'm the guy who does the shopping cart at weddings, the guy who brings back the Macarena, the guy who commits so fully to terrible moves that people can't tell if I'm joking or serious.
I'm always joking.
But I commit.
I spin her. She stumbles and laughs harder. I catch her waist and dip her badly, almost drop her, pull her back up with water splashing everywhere.
"Oh my God," she says, breathless. "That was?—"
"Amazing? Incredible? A masterclass in choreography?"
"Terrible."
"Love, these are my killer moves. You're witnessing greatness. Show some respect."
She's laughing so hard she bends in half. Her hands brace on my chest and her whole body shakes and I think: I'd act stupid for the rest of my life if it meant hearing that laugh.
I spin again. She tries to follow and her foot slips on the pool floor and she crashes into me, hands grabbing my shoulders, still laughing.
"You're ridiculous," she says.
"You're smiling."
"Because you're ridiculous."
"Then I'm doing it right."
I move again. Some combination of a shimmy and a terrible attempt at the robot, and she loses it completely. Doubles over. Her forehead presses against my chest and her shoulders shake and I can feel her laughter against my skin, vibrating through me.
On the lounge chairs, Cade watches. Arms crossed, mouth doing that thing where he's trying not to smile and failing. Rhett's quieter, but his eyes track us and there's something in his expression that I recognize—approval, maybe. Relief. Like he's been waiting for this.
My turn.
Nora straightens. Wipes her eyes. "Okay. Okay, I'll try."
"Try what?"
"To keep up with you."
She starts moving. Badly. With zero rhythm and complete commitment, like she's decided that if I'm going to be ridiculous then she's coming with me. She does some move that might be the sprinkler. Might be a seizure. Hard to tell.
I love it.
We're a disaster. Flailing limbs and splashing water and laughter so loud it drowns out the music. She spins and almost takes out my jaw with her elbow. I duck and she stumbles and I catch her again, hands on her waist, steadying her.
She's grinning. Face flushed, hair wet, eyes bright. The most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
The song changes.
Something slower. Not slow—still upbeat, still got a beat you could move to—but lower energy. Mellower. The shift is subtle enough that it takes a second to notice.
We're still standing close. My hands on her waist. Hers on my shoulders. The laughter dies slow, fading like an echo, and suddenly we're not dancing ridiculous anymore.
We're just dancing.
She moves with me. Sways. The water ripples around us and the sun beats down and her fingers tighten on my shoulder, nails pressing slightly into my skin.
Her eyes drop to my mouth.
The laughter's gone now. Completely. Replaced by something that makes my pulse kick up and my grip on her waist tighten and my thoughts narrow down to one single point of focus: her mouth is right there.
I'm aware my brothers are watching. Cade, still and focused. Rhett leaning forward slightly, elbows on his knees. They're not talking. Not moving. Just watching.
I don't care.
I pull her closer. Her body presses against mine—soft curves, wet skin, the turquoise bikini a thin barrier between us. She's 5'4 and I'm 6'4 and she fits against me in a way that makes my hands span most of her waist, makes her feel perfect and mine.
"Love," I say, voice low.
She looks up. Swallows. "Yeah?"
"I'm gonna kiss you now."
"Okay."
I grin. Can't help it. Even now, even with want burning through me like wildfire and my thoughts scrambling for purchase, I grin because she said "okay" like it's the easiest thing in the world, like she's been waiting for me to say it, like kissing me is as simple as breathing.
I kiss her.
Soft at first. Testing. My mouth on hers, gentle pressure, giving her a chance to pull back if she wants to. Her lips are soft. Warm despite the cool water. I feel the slight catch in her breath, the way her body goes still for half a second before melting into me.
She doesn't pull back.
She rises on her toes instead. Presses closer. Opens her mouth under mine and makes a sound—small, needy, desperate—that goes straight through me like a lightning strike, crackling down my spine and settling low in my gut.
I pull back. Just enough to look at her face.
Her eyes are half-closed, lashes dark and wet, lips parted and swollen already.
The freckles across her nose and cheeks stand out stark against flushed skin, and her chest is rising and falling fast, breasts pressing against the turquoise bikini top with each breath.
"Yeah," I say, voice rougher than I mean it to be. "Thought so."
Then I kiss her again.
Harder this time. Deeper. No more testing, no more gentle. My hands slide from her waist to her hips and I lift her slightly, pulling her flush against me.
The water sloshes around us. She gasps into my mouth—sharp and sweet—and her hands move from my shoulders to my hair, fingers tangling, tugging hard enough that I feel it in my scalp, hard enough that it makes me groan.
The grin's gone now. Burned off completely.
All I can feel is her—the softness of her mouth, the slick heat of her skin under my palms, the way she's kissing me back like she needs it, like last night with my brothers wasn't enough and she's starving for more.
Like I'm not the fun one, not the backup, not the consolation prize.
Like I'm the only thing that matters right now.
I break the kiss. Press my forehead to hers. We're both breathing hard, chests heaving, and I can feel her heart pounding against mine, wild and frantic.
"Jude—"
"I heard you last night," I say. "With Cade. With Rhett. I heard the sounds you made."
Her face goes redder. "Oh God."
"Don't be embarrassed, love. I'm just telling you—I've been waiting. My turn."
She stares at me. Lips swollen, eyes wide. "Your turn?"
"Yeah."
I slide my hands lower. Cup her ass through the wet bikini bottoms. Squeeze. She makes a sound—half gasp, half moan—and I swallow it with another kiss.