“Your place or mine?” I joke, trying to cut the tension.
His gaze drops to the water. “I don’t know if I can go in the water. I thought I wanted to, but … ”
My head tilts, urging him to explain.
“The burns. They were infected so badly before. I don’t know if I want to chance it.”
I’ve had it in my head he backed down yesterday because I’m me. To think the reason he didn’t join me in the water was health-related lessens the sting of him turning away.
“Are they healed?”
All he gives me is a shrug. I don’t know Beau well enough to push the conversation, so I remove my flip-flops, hooking them through my fingers as I make my way to the log that spans most of the river.
I can feel Beau’s gaze latched on to me in an almost unnerving way, but I keep my eyes cast down as I walk the log like a balance beam.
“Careful,” he grumbles when I get about halfway across.
I roll my eyes, but I don’t think he sees it. “Been doing this for a while now. I’m fine.”
“You crossed to this side of the river?” he asks, catching me in a moment of loose-tongued focus.
Fuck.
I opt to ignore the question, gasping when I step down into the cold water to make it the rest of the way. After treading carefully over sharp rocks, I come to stand beside him, still not making eye contact. I toss my foam sandals down and lift a foot to slide one in, but the rocks shift beneath me, and I find myself tipping.
And then not.
Beau’s warm palm captures my upper arm, and he rights me with a deep chuckle. “You can walk that log, but lose your balance putting on sandals?”
When I peek up at him, he’s grinning. Right now, he seems more like the carefree man I remember before that final deployment. For a few beats, we get lost in each other’s eyes. In the warm light of the golden hour, his take on less of a silver tone, trending more toward the soft gray of the river rocks surrounding him.
He’s beautiful almost always. But he’s blinding when he smiles.
“Yeah, yeah.” My lips twitch and my cheeks heat as I drop my head to slide my feet into the sandals. I try to ignore the fact he still hasn’t let go of my arm. His gentle hold brands my skin, and the minute I get those plastic thongs wedged between my toes, I step away, offering him a bright smile in return.
“Wanna come to my place?” he asks. “We can chat there?”
My heartbeat speeds up. “Your place?”
“Yes.” He points to where I already know his home sits.
“What if someone sees us?”
He snorts a laugh, scrubbing a massive hand over the stubble on his cheeks. “Well, if you’re about to be the future Mrs. Eaton, it would make sense that you’d be at my house, no?”
My tongue darts out over my lips as I shift my focus to the embankment. He seems … happy about this.
I can’t wrap my head around that. It all feels so fucking weird.
“Okay. Yeah.”
This time, his hand lands at the base of my neck as he guides me away from the river, fingers so long they curve over my shoulder and dust over the pulse point in my throat.
I can’t help but wonder if he can feel my heart rate accelerating, if that was his casual way of checking, or if it was a mistake. I have a sinking suspicion this arrangement is going to leave me overthinking every little touch, every little look.
“Maybe I can make you tea this time.”
My laugh comes out a little shrill, his fingers absorbing the vibration in my neck. “I could use something stronger than tea for this conversation.”
His hand drops as we walk the path up the embankment. I’m so starved for touch; I wish he’d put it back.
“Well, that’s perfect. I’ve got a couple beers in the fridge that have been ignored. They’ve got your name on them.”
He leads me up the hill and I try not to stare at his ass. But his broad shoulders aren’t any less distracting. They flex against the black polyester of whatever workout shirt he’s wearing, and they taper down into a perfectly narrow waist. My thoughts drift to what it would be like to prop my legs over them while he buried his head between my thighs. How would that feel?
I remember the way the moonlight hit his bare torso the other night. It’s impossible to forget. I wonder how heavy his body would feel over my own. How another person’s skin would feel sliding against mine.
I clear my throat and give my head a shake before I ask, “You haven’t been drinking at all? Not even at home?”
“No. I’m addicted to chamomile tea now.”
It seems like an intrusion to ask if he’s sleeping, so I don’t. Plus, seeing as how we met down at the river in the middle of the night, it seems like I can make an educated guess.
“Huh,” I reply stupidly, before adding, “Good for you.”
“Yeah, well, someone I respect told me I couldn’t keep drinking the way I was.”
The skin on my chest vibrates with the heavy thud of my heart.
Does he mean me? It could only be me.
“She also told me I’d embarrassed myself and called me an asshole.”
I can’t stop the shy smile that curves across my lips. “Wow. She sounds really smart.”
It’s right as we hit the top of the embankment that he turns and glances over his shoulder. “She’s pretty too,” he murmurs, the golden sky glowing around his silhouette.
He almost freezes me in place with that little addition, but I cover it and roll my eyes with a light laugh. “Cute. Really cute.” I gently slap him across the shoulder to cut the tension, not wanting to bask in him and his smooth words for too long.
I remind myself that Beau is older and charming and about to be my fake fiancé.
He’s always been a flirt—a showboat—and it’s nice to get a peek at that side of him. It feels good to be the one who can bring it out in him, but if I’m going to go through with this bet, I’ll need to keep reminding myself that we’re pretending.
And that Eatons don’t mix with Jansens.
“Your house is nice.” I spin the cold bottle of beer between my palms. Truthfully, I’m not a beer gal, but this feels like a situation where beggars can’t be choosers. “Super modern.” I keep my head turned, peering around the open space.
Doesn’t suit him if I’m being honest. It’s all sharp corners and cold materials. Polished concrete floors. The odd wood beam paired with gray walls. Big floor-to-ceiling windows that face out over the open expanse of land on one side and the creek bed on the other.
“Yeah. After growing up in what felt like a mountain lodge, I built something a little different. Less Old West and more … ” He shrugs from across the table, dipping his tea bag into the steaming mug of water … over and over again.
It’s almost sexual. In, out. In, out.
This fake relationship is going to be painfully long if I can’t even deal with the way this man handles a tea bag.
I lick my lips, cross my legs, and take a deep swig of my beer, internally berating myself to get my shit together.
“Fresh. Sleek,” he concludes thoughtfully.
“Yes, well. It’s very masculine. Just like you.” My eyes snap to his. Smug humor graces his every feature. “Fuck. Just … ” I look away, spinning the bottle again, trying not to be overwhelmed by sitting across from him at a small dining table. “I’m nervous. You make me nervous.”
“Why?” He doesn’t budge, keeping his focus entirely on me.
Because I’m endlessly horny, and have you met yourself?
“This situation makes me nervous,” I clarify instead of blurting out the first thought that runs through my mind.
For once.
“Okay,” he leans back in his chair, appearing so relaxed. I envy his level of confidence. “Let’s talk it out. Plan it. Lay it all on the line.”
I nod, nibbling at my lip, trying not to let my eyes take the slide back down his body again. “Yes. We need some ground rules.”
He leans forward now, elbows propped on the table, mug between his big palms. I stare.
I wish I was that mug.