I can see the edge of the boat when I tilt my head for air, and I try to concentrate on how Sam is back beside me and not all the years he wasn’t. It doesn’t take long before my shoulders are tight with knots and my legs begin to burn, but I keep kicking and slicing my arms through the water.
I’m in a mindless rhythm when a cramp seizes my big toe. I slow down and try curling it up to ease the muscle, but an agonizing pain shoots up my calf. I try to keep kicking but the spasm gets worse, and I have to stop swimming. I grit my teeth trying to tread water and yelp when the cramp doesn’t release. I can barely hear Sam shouting until I see the side of the boat right next to me.
“Are you okay?” He looks panicked. I shake my head, and then I feel his hands under my armpits, hauling me out of the water. My stomach scrapes on the side of the boat as he pulls me in, hands at my waist and then under my butt. I fall on top of him in a sopping pile of limbs.
I’m lying with my head on his bare chest, trying to catch my breath. The pain subsides if I stay still, but when I wiggle my toe, it shoots through my leg again, and I hiss.
Only then am I aware of Sam’s hands, which tighten on my hips. I’m fully pressed to him, my forehead, my nose, my chest, my stomach—all I want to do is run my tongue across his warm chest and roll my hips against his jeans to relieve what’s happening between my thighs. It’s totally inappropriate, considering the amount of pain I’m in.
“You okay, Percy?” His voice is strained.
“Cramp,” I breathe into his chest. “In my toe and calf. Hurts to move.”
“Which leg?”
“Left.” I feel Sam’s hand move down my thigh to my calf to the muscle. Goose bumps radiate from under his fingers, and a shudder runs through me. He pauses for a second, and I lift my head to look at him. His eyes are dark and unblinking.
“Sorry,” I whisper. He shakes his head so slightly it’s almost imperceptible.
“It helps to relax the muscle,” he says and wraps his whole hand over my calf, applying pressure, then moving in slow circles, kneading gently. My heart is beating so fiercely I wonder if he can feel it, too. I shut my eyes and involuntarily squeeze my thighs together. He must feel the movement because his left hand increases its grip on my hip. I can feel his breath on my forehead.
“Better?” The question comes out in a rasp. I shift my leg slightly, and it does feel better.
“Yeah.” I push myself up, but now I’m straddling him awkwardly on the floor of the boat. His chest is slick with the water. I start brushing it off, but he puts his hand around my wrist. He’s looking up at me, eyelids heavy.
“You’re trouble,” he says, echoing my words from earlier. The air between us pulls tight like a rubber band. I take a deep breath, and Sam’s gaze follows the rise of my chest, and yep, my nipples are obscene under my top. To be fair, I’m cold and wet.
Sam swallows and meets my eyes again. I’ve seen this look from him before, stormy and focused and completely consuming, like I could fall into his eyes and never get out. His fingers move slightly at the back of my hip, just under the edge of my bathing suit. His other hand runs up and down the back of my thigh. What is happening?
Taylor, I think. Sam has Taylor. Sam’s hand leaves my thigh and he rubs his thumb over the creases between my eyes, smoothing out the frown lines, then runs it down over my cheek, cupping my face.
“You’re still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known,” he says, and it sounds like coarse sandpaper. I blink at him. His words are confusing and wonderful, and I feel a little high and a lot turned on. But I know we shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t want this. He traces my lips with his thumb, and the fingers of his other hand dig more deeply into the flesh at the back of my hip.
“This is a bad idea.” I choke the words out.
His eyes move rapidly across my face, and he sits up beneath me so that I’m on his lap. He rests his forehead on mine and closes his eyes, taking shallow breaths. Is he shaking? I think he’s shaking. I move my hands to his shoulders and rub them up and down his arms.
“Hey, it’s okay. Old habits, right?” I say, trying to lighten the mood, but my heart is screaming at me. “Why don’t we head back and have a swim to cool off,” I say, looking around, seeing now that I hadn’t even made it halfway across the lake.
When I look back to Sam, his jaw is clenched as though he’s trying to decide something, but he only says, “Yeah, okay.”
* * *
SAM HEADS UP to the house to change when we get back from our very short, very quiet boat ride. I had gotten a quick glimpse of my cottage from the water, a flashback of my parents sitting on the deck with cold glasses of wine. Now I sit at the edge of the dock waiting for Sam with my feet in the water, replaying what just happened, lingering on the moment when his fingers slipped under my suit. My hips still tingle where his hands gripped them. I once wanted Sam in every way I could have him—that hasn’t changed. And if he had kept going, I would have, too. I’m ashamed by that truth, but it is the truth. I know myself. My self-control is on ice when I’m around him. I wonder if that would be a good premise for a book, a woman with no self-control. I smile to myself—I haven’t daydreamed about stories in a long time.
I hear Sam’s footsteps behind me, and I look over my shoulder. He’s wearing a pair of coral-colored swim trunks that look amazing against his tanned skin and holding a pair of towels and a water bottle.
“What are you thinking about?” He puts the towels down and sits beside me, his shoulder touching mine, and passes me the bottle.
“Just an idea for a story.”
“You still write like that?”
“No,” I admit. “I don’t really write at all.”
“You should,” he says gently, after a moment. “You were really good. I’m pretty sure I still have an autographed copy of ‘Young Blood’ in the desk drawer of my old bedroom.”
I look at him wide-eyed. “You don’t.”
“Yeah. Actually, I know I do. It holds up.” He must see the question written on my face, because he answers it without me asking. “I’ve been staying in my old room for a year—I went through my things a while back.”
“I can’t believe you still have it. I don’t think I even have a copy anymore,” I say with disbelief.
“Well, you can’t have mine.” He grins. “It’s dedicated to me, if you’ll remember.”
“Of course,” I murmur as my mind drifts into nostalgia. I wish Sue were here. She would have got a kick out of watching thirty-year-old me attempt to swim across the lake without any training.
The question leaves my throat as soon as it enters my head: “Did your mom hate me?” I turn to Sam and watch him puzzle out how to answer. He’s silent for a long moment.
“No, she didn’t hate you, Percy,” he says finally. “She was concerned that we stopped speaking so suddenly. She asked a lot of questions—some of them I had answers for, and others I didn’t. And, I don’t know, I think she was hurt, too.” His blue eyes fix on me. “She loved you. You were family.” I press my lips together, hard, and tilt my face skyward.
This is the moment, I think. This is the moment where I tell him.
But then Sam speaks again. “I don’t, either, by the way.”
“You don’t what?” I ask, looking at him.
“I don’t hate you,” he says simply. I hadn’t known how badly I needed to hear those words until they left his lips. My bottom lip begins to tremble and I bite down on it, concentrating on the sharpness of my teeth. My courage has vanished. I’m as brittle as dry straw.
“Thanks,” I say when I’m certain my voice won’t break. Sam bumps me gently with his shoulder. “Shall we?” He slants his head toward the raft. “Maybe we can get some more freckles on that nose of yours.” I exhale a nervous laugh. He stands up first, then holds out a hand, pulling me up.
“I would apologize in advance, Percy, but I know I won’t be sorry,” he says with a smirk, and before I can ask what the hell he means, he picks me up like a sack of flour, and tosses me into the water.
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