Page 7 of The Forbidden Summer (Pathfinders Lake #2)

Van

The boat rocks gently beneath us, each stroke of the oars pulling us farther from shore.

The lake’s smooth as glass, save for the soft ripple trailing behind us.

Late afternoon light glints off the water, painting gold across Père’s cheekbones and catching in his lashes.

He squints toward the horizon like it’s easier than looking at me.

I should be watching where I’m rowing, but…well, I’m not.

“You always this quiet on boats,” I ask, “or is it just the company?”

He shifts, barely. His knee bumps mine, then retreats. “ Just thinking.”

“Dangerous habit.”

“You should try it sometime.”

I grin, but he doesn’t see it. Or he does and pretends not to. I let the oars rest in their locks, letting us drift.

“You know,” I say lightly, “this is kind of romantic. If you ignore the mosquitoes.”

His jaw tightens, just a flicker. “You say that like it’s a joke.”

“Isn’t it?”

I meet his eyes then. He doesn’t look away this time, but he doesn’t answer either. The space between us stretches, thin and vibrating like a wire pulled taut.

It would be easy to say something—something honest, or stupid, or both. But I don’t. He doesn’t either.

The boat creaks. A bird calls somewhere near the reeds.

He clears his throat. “You going to row us back, or are we just going to drift until nightfall?”

I pick up the oars again, the moment dissolving like mist. “Guess we’ll see.”

I keep rowing, making sure to flex my barely-there muscles, because I like the way he watches when he thinks I’m not paying attention.

Père mutters something under his breath—French, probably something rude. Definitely something I want to hear again.

I cock my head. “Was that a curse or a compliment?”

“Yes,” he says, still not looking at me.

I row for a while, staying quiet. Nothing but silence and side glances. Père doesn’t speak, and I don’t push it. But the quiet feels charged, like the air before a storm.

Eventually, I let the oars rest again, and we drift. The sun’s lower now, skimming the edge of the trees. The lake’s gone a dark, silvery blue, and everything feels closer. Smaller.

Père leans back, arms braced behind him. His fingers trail the surface of the water, slowly. Thoughtful. I watch the way his throat moves when he swallows.

“How come you seem so tense?” I ask, trying to keep it light. Teasing.

His fingers pause in the water.

“I’m not tense.”

I tilt my head. “You flinch when I look at you too long.”

“I don’t.”

“You just did.”

He doesn’t deny it this time. Just pulls his hand from the water.

I lean forward slightly, just enough to close a bit of the space between us. Not touching, but close. Closer than we’ve been.

He notices. “Van.” His voice is quiet. Not quite a warning.

“Yeah?”

He doesn’t finish the thought. Just stares at me like he’s trying to solve something. I reach out carefully and pluck a small leaf from his hair. My fingers graze his temple briefly. Not accidental, though I want it to seem that way.

He doesn’t pull away.

“There was…” I hold up the leaf. “A thing.”

He lets out a shaky breath. Not quite a laugh, but his eyes don’t leave mine.

The boat rocks gently, and for one suspended second, I think he might say something. Something meaningful. Something wise.

But instead, he just says, “We should head back.”

And I nod, even though I don’t want to. Even though we both know something just changed between us.

The boat noses toward shore, the light nearly gone. Shadows stretch long over the water, and the sounds of the lake shift—frogs, the low drone of insects, something rustling in the reeds. I row slower than I need to. I don’t say why, and Père doesn’t ask.

When the hull finally thuds against the soft shore, I rise first, step out into the shallows, and reach for his hand to steady him.

Père hesitates. Just for a breath. Then his fingers slide into mine.

It’s nothing, a small gesture. But the way he grips me, the way he holds on longer than necessary— that’s not nothing.

I don’t let go right away and neither does he.

When he finally looks up at me, the world stills. His eyes are unreadable but focused. It’s the first time he’s really looked at me in days.

“Van,” he says again, and this time it’s not a warning or a question. It’s just my name, wrapped in something that feels terrifyingly like want .

I step closer. Enough that I could kiss him. Enough that if he swayed even slightly forward, we’d cross that line without saying a word.

“You don’t want this,” I murmur. It’s not a challenge, just the truth, laid bare and trembling.

His breath catches. “That’s not—” He stops himself.

I wait but he doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t pull away either.

So I lift a hand, slow, deliberate, and lightly touch the corner of his jaw. Like I’m waiting for him to flinch.

He doesn’t.

“Tell me to stop,” I say.

He doesn’t.

My thumb brushes the edge of his mouth.

He leans in .

It’s barely anything. Just a ghost of contact. A breath shared. A single suspended second where we almost let it happen.

God, just fucking kiss me! Put me out of my misery.

But then his hand comes up and presses softly against my chest. Not pushing me away. Just... stopping time.

“I can’t,” he whispers.

And I nod, heart thudding. “I know.”

He lets go of my hand and steps back. Père doesn’t look at me again as we drag the boat up the shore together.

But the lull between us feels unavoidable. It’s no longer what we’re avoiding. It’s what we’re both holding back .

I just don’t know if he feels the same as I do, or if I caught him in a weak moment, and he couldn’t hide his longing. Maybe it’s not about me, maybe Père’s just lonely and touch-starved.

But for me, it’s so much more than that. And for a moment, I let myself believe it is for him, too.