Page 17 of What You left in Me

I tilt my head, keeping myself afloat in slow circles. “Why weren’t you at dinner?”

“Because I had better things to do,” he says flatly, like it’s obvious.

“Like what? Staring at your laptop until it dies of boredom?”

“Exactly that.” His smirk is dazzling this time, humor twisted at the edges. “At least my laptop doesn’t ask me to make polite conversation with people I don’t give a damn about.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re impossible,” I tell him, aware it’s not for the first time.

“And you’re nosy,” he fires back, his voice threaded with amusement that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Maybe I was just curious,” I counter, biting back a smile. “Not everything’s a battle with you, you know.”

“You’d be surprised,” he mutters, almost to himself, before his gaze dips again to the waterline. “So, regretting your choice of swimming attire yet?”

The words slice through the night like a match struck. I don’t give him the satisfaction of answering.

His smirk deepens, slow and deliberate. “Is that a yes?”

I glare at him, keeping my shoulders just above the surface. “It’s none of your business.”

He huffs out a laugh that sounds more like a growl. “The water’s cold. You should get out.”

“I’m fine,” I repeat, shaking my head.

“You’re not. You’re turning blue.” His eyes rake over me again, fiery and unflinching. “Don’t be stubborn.”

“I’m not…”

A shiver runs through me, betraying me. My lips part to argue again, but the truth hangs there between us. I am cold. Too cold, now that I’m not swimming laps to keep my body moving and warm anymore.

Grudgingly, I swim to the edge, press my palms to the wood and hoist myself out of the water. I won’t feel self-conscious. What the hell do I have to feel weird about? He’s the one who’s being weird.

The air slaps against me, colder than the water, goosebumps racing across my arms and thighs. My bikini clings like a second skin, black turning nearly translucent where it stretches wet across my breasts and hips. My hair drips down my back, droplets sliding over my collarbone, tracing the hollow of my stomach.

I don’t look at him until I have to.

Finn hasn’t moved. He stands at the edge of the lake, the lantern light cutting across his bare chest, his arms loose at his sides now, hands flexing as though he’s restraining himself. His eyes are on me. He lacks the decency of looking away—or even pretending to look away.

I step closer, and the cold bites harder until I’m nearly trembling.

He notices.Of course he notices.He steps forward, closing the distance, the heat rolling off his body before he even touches me.

And then, he does.

His hand rises, rough and warm, fingers brushing over my chilled arm. The contrast is jarring, his skin hot against mine, his touch steady while I’m shivering. He drags his palm up, over my damp shoulder, lingering there. The warmth sinks into me, spreading like fire under the ice.

“You’re freezing,” he murmurs, voice coming out gruff.

I breathe out, shaky. “You’re warm,” I return.

His eyes catch mine, and for a long beat neither of us looks away. It’s not playful teasing. My pulse hammers, loud in my ears, louder than the water lapping at the pool’s edge.

His hand slides higher, up from my shoulder to my neck. His palm is hot against my chilled skin, fingers wrapping lightly around the column of my throat. Not tight but somehow possessive, enough to make every nerve ending in my body spark awake. The claim of his hand there makes it hard to swallow, harder to breathe.

The other hand finds my waist, rough fingertips brushing the thin strap clinging to my hip before skimming up my spine. His palm presses to my damp back, dragging slowly up and then down again, tracing the line of my body like he’s trying to will warmth into me. Each pass leaves fire where the water left ice, a slow burn spreading under my skin.

My body leans into the heat before my brain can stop it. His chest is close enough now that I feel the rise and fall of his breathing, steady and deep.