Page 93 of Brewer Family Collection, Part 1

“I … no . Nope. I’m not going there.” He grinds his teeth together and shakes his head. A growl rumbles through the air. “You could literally turn anything into an argument.”

“I’m not sure what sort of a reply you were after when you basically insinuated that my ass was so big you couldn’t ignore it.” My eyes narrow. “Does that angle work for you with other women? Or were you simply trying to be a dick?”

He squares his shoulder to mine and peers down at me. His eyes are lasered in on my face, making me gasp from the intensity.

“ Or let’s try this,” he says, lifting a brow cockily. “What reaction were you after when you intentionally bent over in front of me? Just kidding. I don’t have to ask. I know that gets men’s attention. So am I right to think you were trying to get mine?”

You bastard . I ball my free hand at my side.

“Oh, did I hit a nerve?” His soft voice is mocking. Amusement dances across his stupidly handsome face. “Did you get called out for wanting—practically begging—for my attention?”

“ Please ,” I say. “If you want to know the truth, I think you wanted my attention, and that’s why you were staring, which, may I add, doesn’t really jive with your fake I’m-such-a-gentleman persona. You should work on that.”

My heart pounds as sweat from the heat, anger, and a little embarrassment trickles down my chest.

I’m most angry that the fucker is right—I did want his attention. The problem is that he thinks I wanted it because I think it’s a trophy. The great Ripley Brewer likes my ass . And while that is a small, tiny feather in my cap, that wasn’t the reason for my actions.

I wanted to have the upper hand.

“There are many things I need to work on, Miss Hayes, but my gentleman persona is not one of them.” He rolls his head around his shoulders. “I should’ve turned around and left as soon as I saw you.”

“Why didn’t you?” I bring my tumbler to my lips. “Would’ve been doing us both a favor.”

His jaw flexes as he watches me take a sip of my water. The fire in his eyes is met with the inferno in mine.

“You’re right,” he says.

I drop my drink to my side, flabbergasted he admitted that so easily.

“I’m going to go inside. I’ll let Jeremiah know something came up and I have to leave,” he says. “Not dealing with your shit is better than ruining my afternoon.”

“By all means, please go. Save both of our afternoons. But at least take the blame, gentleman .”

“You are incorrigible.”

“I’m …” My head spins as I try to find a quick comeback. Who uses words like that? “Corrigible.”

He smiles. “Corrigible, huh?”

“Yeah,” I say, shifting from one foot to the other.

“Do you even know what that means?”

“Yes,” I say weakly.

“So you’re admitting you can change? You can be reformed from your incorrigible, witchy ways?”

“That’s not what corrigible means.”

He smiles smugly. “That’s exactly what it means.”

I start toward the house with Ripley on my heels. Fuck him and his vocabulary.

“What I mean is that I’m pleasant,” I say. “Nice. I can get along with anyone. So the fact that I can’t get along with you is very telling.”

“Yeah. It means you’re an asshole,” he says.

“It means that you’re the problem.”

He stops abruptly beside the pool, and I turn and face him. Sweat coats his skin, drawing attention to the ridges of his face and the smooth skin of his neck. He licks his lips as he looks down at me, studying me like a project.

Annoyance rolls through me, intensified by the sun and the heat rolling off his body. I should walk away and leave him behind … but I don’t. I’m stuck in place, waiting for him to speak.

“Do you realize that our biggest argument is over us arguing?” he asks. “We fight the most about the fact that we fight.”

“Because we never get beyond that. As soon as your lips part, I want to punch them.”

He tilts his head to the side, and I loathe that I notice how much his blue eyes shine in the sunlight.

“What would happen if we stayed silent toward each other when we’re in the same room?” he asks. “If we completely ignore the other person instead of going for the jugular?”

I consider this. It might be possible, but I’ve never thought about it before.

“I mean, you would have to take that stick out of your ass, but I think you can do it,” he says.

What?

My jaw hangs open, anger and frustration swirling wildly inside me. It rises too quickly to contain. Before I know it, my hands are planted on his solid, wall-like chest, and I push him backward.

His eyes fly open as his momentum swiftly changes directions, and he loses his balance. He snaps out a hand, wrapping it around my wrist, and yanks me off my feet.

“ No ,” I squeal as I shoot through the air, my tumbler banging against the decking as it falls. Ripley drags me with him, his fingers burning into my wrist, as we sail toward the water.

I barely hold my breath before I plummet into the water.

Two splashes ring through the air as Ripley and I sink to the bottom of the pool. I open my eyes to find him a few feet away, grinning mischievously.

Oof.

Bubbles float from his mouth from what I imagine is a chuckle, just before he spreads his arms—his shirt clinging to every ridge of his body—and heads for the surface.

I swim to the top and gasp a lungful of air, brushing my wet hair off my face. Ripley is treading water an arm’s length away. He’s cool, calm, and collected—no worse for the wear. His shirt is sucked to his body by the water, like a model waiting for a photo shoot, and that only makes me madder.

But I can’t say anything because I shoved him first.

“Hey, Peaches,” he says, humor dancing across his features.

“Fuck you.”

“Fine. I won’t tell you that your tits are hanging out. It’s not like I mind.”

I look down to see my nipples peaked and pointed directly at him.

I scurry to pull up my top with a full-on blush. He swims gracefully, lazily to the side. Two hands grip the pool's edge before he lifts himself—his arm muscles flexing beneath the sparkly water droplets on his skin—and climbs out.

He walks away without looking back. I hate Ripley Brewer .