Page 16 of The Forbidden Summer (Pathfinders Lake #2)

Van

I dive in like I’m chasing something, maybe a reprieve from the heat, or maybe just Père’s attention. The water feels warm on the surface, but cooler down by my feet. The sun is high, baking my face and casting a blinding glow off the water’s glassy surface.

I swim out past the dock just far enough to make Père nervous, then loop back in like it was nothing. The ladder creaks under my weight as I climb up, slick and dripping, leaving wet footprints all over the old wooden planks.

Père's standing by the grill like some sort of lakeside deity—shirtless, tongs in one hand, dish towel flung over his shoulder like he's posing for the Men of Summer calendar. His trunks are scandalously short. Not that I’m complaining.

I shake out my hair right next to him, and he flinches when the droplets hit his back.

“You splash me again,” he warns, not even looking over, “and I’m tossing your burger to the loons.” He flips the patty with casual flair, the way only years of backyard bragging rights can earn. “Which would be a shame, considering how close we are to greatness here.”

I slink up behind him and wrap my arms around his middle, my wet skin against his sun-warm back, and rest my chin on his shoulder like I belong there.

“Mmm,” I sigh theatrically. “I love it when you talk dirty about grilling technique.”

He huffs a laugh but doesn’t move away. Just stands there with his tongs and that stubborn smirk.

“You’re not charming,” he says. “You’re wet. And cold. And annoying.”

“Cold, yes. Annoying, arguably. But charming?” I nuzzle the side of his neck, just barely. “Undeniably.”

Père maintains a stoic expression, but I feel that little capitulation in the way he leans back into me before pulling away.

Peeling off, I skip to the edge of the dock, sitting with my legs in the water, and kick up little waves. I glance over my shoulder. “You bringing me that burger, or do I need to come eat it from your hand?”

Père gives me the look. The one that says, don’t push it , but also keep going . He walks over holding out the plate like it’s an offering. Our fingers brush when I take it from him, and no surprise, something in me sparks.

We sit side by side on the dock, our toes in the water, not talking anymore. Just chewing and listening to the soft hiss of the grill behind us, the occasional call of a loon out on the lake.

We polish off our burgers in record time, mostly because I keep trying to steal bites off Père’s plate and he keeps threatening to stab me with a pickle spear.

With my belly full, I stretch out on the dock like a cat, skin sun-drenched, and toes still dragging lazy circles through the water.

Beside me, Père props up on one elbow, watching the sky change from gold to lavender.

There’s a dragonfly doing stunt tricks between us.

It’s a perfect moment. Naturally, I decide to ruin it.

“So,” I start, flipping onto my stomach and resting my chin in my hands. “On a scale from one to drag me behind the shed and ravish me, how bad do you want to kiss me again?”

Père snorts, one of those full-bodied ones, like I just made him choke on his tongue. “You’re deranged.”

“Mm-hmm. And you still kissed me yesterday.”

“That was a lapse in judgment.”

“Then I hope you keep lapsing. For, like, the rest of your life.”

He shoots me a sideways glance, trying real hard to pretend he’s immune. But I see it. The twitch at the corner of his mouth, the faint color rising in his cheeks that’s definitely not just sunburn.

“I’m not dragging you behind the shed,” he says, trying to sound stern. “If I wanted to kiss you again,” his gaze turns hot, “I’d do it right here, in plain view.”

“You’re thinking about it,” I whisper. Damn, I need to touch my dick so bad. Better yet, I need him to touch it.

“I’m thinking about throwing you in the lake again.”

“You could do that. Or…” I run my fingers slowly along the wa istband of his trunks, teasing, not touching. “You could kiss me like you meant it last time.”

He stills. Just for a beat. And then his hand comes down to gently catch mine, holding it in place.

“Of course I meant it,” he defends heatedly. “That’s the problem.”

Suddenly it’s a little harder to breathe. The lake goes still again. No wind, no birds, just the heat of his hand over mine and the absence of everything not being said.

I swallow. “Okay, but like… if we happen to end up behind the shed, I won’t fight you on it.”

He closes his eyes and exhales a laugh. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yeah,” I murmur, smiling. “But I’m yours.”

“You are mine,” he confirms. His thumb brushes against the back of mine absently, like it’s a habit he picked up somewhere along the way and never let go of.

Père finally lets go of my hand. Not in a bad way.

Just like it costs him something. He sits up, knees bent with his elbows on them, staring out at the water.

“You keep poking at it,” he says after a while. “Like it’s a joke. Like it’s harmless.”

I sit up too, arms wrapped around my legs. “It’s not harmless,” I say quietly. “That’s the whole reason I keep poking.”

He huffs out a laugh. Not mean. Just tired. “You’re trouble.”

“And you like trouble.”

“Doesn’t mean I should.”

I glance over. His profile’s all golden edges and quiet restraint. Jaw tight, lips soft. The look of someone trying really hard not to want something they already have.

“Look,” I say, nudging his knee with mine. “We don’t have to do anything behind the shed. I just like being near you. I like it when you look at me like that. ”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re trying not to.”

That gets me a smile. Barely there, but real. “You make it hard.”

“I know.” I grin, nudging him again. “But it’s summer. You’re allowed to want dumb things in summer. Snow cones. Fireworks. Me.” We both know I’m going to want him long after summer is over.

Père laughs, but still, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t kiss me. Just leans back on his hands, eyes on the horizon. “You keep simmering like this, Van, and one of us is gonna boil over.”

I lean into his side, just barely. “That’s the plan.”

The grill’s been cold for an hour. Smoke's gone, the lake's quiet, and the sky’s dipped into full navy blue. We lit the old fire pit in front of the cabin. Père insisted on doing it the real way, no lighter fluid, just dry pine needles and a single match like he’s some kind of mountain wizard. Of course, it worked.

We’re sitting on opposite sides of the fire, but close enough that our knees brush every so often when I move. Close enough that I can hear the way he exhales when he thinks I’m not paying attention.

He’s playing something on the old portable radio. Some dusty rock ballad I don’t recognize, but it sounds like summer and longing and missed chances. The kind of song that makes you stare into the fire too long.

I poke a marshmallow onto a stick and hold it out over the flames. He watches, smiling like I’m a dumbass about to set it on fire.

“You gonna do it right this time?” he asks .

“Define ‘right.’”

“Golden. Toasted. Not scorched and crying.”

I squint at him. “I’m a chaotic marshmallow toaster with a tendency for pyromania.”

“You’re a menace.”

I wiggle my eyebrows. “But I’m your menace.”

Why do I keep pushing? Maybe because my life has been tossed upside down like a boat caught in a storm, and I need the reassurance that underneath everything—the feelings, the tension, the kiss—he’s still my grandad, my Père.

He leans back, hands laced behind his head, and just looks at me. Firelight flickering across his face, softening all the lines and sharpening his eyes. It’s criminal, honestly. He should be illegal.

“I ever tell you about the time I tried to kiss someone at this fire when I was nineteen?” he says suddenly.

I raise my brows. “Ooh, storytime. Do tell.”

“She was… wild. A little dangerous. Wore too much eyeliner. Thought she was invincible.”

I smile, gently. “And?”

“And I chickened out.” He shrugs. “Sat here trying to be brave, trying to lean in… and didn’t. Regretted it all summer.”

I watch him quietly. “You ever see her again?”

He nods. “Once. Twenty years later. At a gas station in town. She was just as sharp. And married to a woman who looked like she could bench press me.”

I laugh. “Sounds like she won.”

“She did,” he agrees.

The marshmallow finally catches fire. I panic and blow it out, waving the stick around like an idiot. The blackened puff drops into the dirt.

Père smirks. “Told you. ”

“Don’t mock my process,” I mutter, stabbing another one.

There’s a silence after that, but it’s not empty. It’s full . With music and heat and the kind of wanting that fills up your chest like smoke.

I glance at him. “If I kissed you right now,” I say softly, “would you regret it in twenty years?”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t joke. “No,” he says. “I’d regret it if I didn’t.”

And still, he doesn’t move. Just lets it sit there. Lets me decide.

Like I really have a choice? How could I not do it?

I slide around the fire slowly and settle beside him, our shoulders pressed together. I don’t kiss him yet, just lean into the warmth of him, feeling his breath change.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I whisper.

“I know,” he says.

We sit like that for the longest time, watching the flames rise and fall, stars blinking into existence above us.

Simmering.

Always simmering.

I’m still half-focused on the marshmallow I just yanked out of the fire, way too proud of myself for getting it golden-brown this time. I slide it onto a square of chocolate and graham cracker with more drama than necessary, and he gives me a look like he’s trying not to smile.

“See?” I say, offering it up. “I can be gentle.”

Père takes it from me, and our fingers brush again. He bites into it, a little too fast. Some of the marshmallow squishes out the side and sticks to the corner of his mouth. I can’t stop staring at it. Shiny and white and soft.

“God,” I say, grinning. “You’re a mess. ”

He licks at it with the tip of his tongue and misses completely.

“Where?” he asks.

Instead of answering, I lean in. Just a few inches. Close enough that I can feel the heat off his skin, the faint smell of woodsmoke and toasted sugar. Close enough to see the way his breath hitches.

My hand comes up slowly, and I brush the sticky marshmallow from the corner of his mouth with my thumb. I should stop there. But I don’t.

I slide my thumb down along his jaw, achingly slow. His eyes don’t leave mine. And then, finally, finally , I kiss him.

It starts carefully, like we’re both testing the heat of it, making sure we won’t burn. But the second his lips part and I taste smoke and sugar and a tiny sound he didn’t mean to make, it’s over.

His hand finds the back of my neck and he pulls me in closer. I swing one leg over his lap without thinking, just needing more of him, all of him. The fire crackles behind us like it’s cheering us on.

The kiss deepens, messy and sweet, our mouths sticky with marshmallow and want.

When we finally pull back, we’re breathless. Père looks at me like I’m the whole damn summer.

“You got it on me again,” he murmurs.

“What, the marshmallow?”

“No. You. ”

My heart stutters. And then he kisses me again, like he’s not afraid anymore. Like this is the part he won’t regret.

This kiss is slower, more self-assured. More sure of us . And as his lips move over mine, I can’t help but think about yesterday.

The rain. God, that rain.

It came out of nowhere, slicing through the trees like glass shards. Cold enough to steal your breath, soaking us down to the bone in seconds. And then, just like that, he kissed me.

Hard. Desperate. Like he didn’t know if he’d ever get the chance again. One of those passionate movie kisses. My clothes stuck to my skin. His hands were shaking. The kiss was all teeth and heat and hunger, like we were burning up from the inside out, trying to outrun the storm.

It wasn’t pretty. It was raw.

Tonight isn’t that.

Tonight is firelight flickering across his face while he leans in like I’m something to savor.

It’s sticky-sweet lips and the soft pull of my hair where his fingers tangle.

It’s warmth, not urgency. It’s being chosen, not chased.

Tonight, we don’t crash into each other. We melt.

And I realize, as his thumb grazes my jaw, that yesterday’s kiss said don’t let me go.

But this one?

This one says I’m not going anywhere.