Page 37 of Good Graces

“You butcher poetry for sport,” I’d shot back.

And then, later, we were at the Sycamore pool together. It was after hours during the first weekend of July. He whispered a few words of poetry in my ear, pressed me into the tiles, the water slick between us, the air thick with chlorine and the heat of July.

That was the moment, I think, that I knew I was his.

That no matter how much I pretended otherwise, no matter how many times I told myself otherwise, Warren Mercer had already slipped beneath my chest, made a home inside my hollow heart.

And I never wanted him to leave.

12

QUINN

THAT FIRST SUMMER

The pool’sbeen closed for over an hour now. The lounge chairs are stacked, the cabanas empty, the water a still, glassy surface reflecting the glow of the security lights.

We shouldn’t be here.

If anyone catches us, we’re both screwed. But Warren had smirked at me after our shift, tossed his towel over his shoulder, and said, “Meet me at the deep end after lockup.”

And now, here we are. Breaking rules like it’s foreplay.

I perch at the pool’s edge, toes dipping into the water. It’s warm, even at night, the heat of the day still clinging to my skin. I lean back on my outstretched arms, legs dangling into the deep end, eyes locked on Warren’s blue-gray gaze just below.

Warren’s already in the pool, arms hooked over the edge, watching me. He’s bare-chested, dark hair damp and slicked back, eyes steady on mine.

“You gonna make me wait all night?”

I roll my eyes. “Patience, Mercer.”

But I slip into the water anyway, the chlorine-slick surface sliding up my skin as I push off the wall. Warren drifts backward, keeping his eyes on me. There’s a challenge in them. A dare.

For a moment, we just float. The silence stretching between us is easy. Comfortable. The sounds of the night fill the space—the hum of cicadas, the distant rush of traffic, the occasional lap of water against tile.

I dip my head back, letting myself drift. “Did you actually have a reason for dragging me out here, or was this just an elaborate plot to get me in a swimsuit?”

He hums, lazily treading water. “Would you believe me if I said both?”

I scoff and flick some water in his direction. He laughs, dodging easily, then kicks off. It only takes him a single powerful stroke to cross the distance between us.

And now he’s close. Close enough that I can see the water beading on his shoulders, the way his collarbones cut sharp against his skin. Close enough to count the flecks of navy blue in his eyes.

I swallow. “You know, if this is the part where you try to drown me, you’re gonna have to work harder than that.”

He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t smirk. Just watches me, lips barely parted as he says, “I dwell in Possibility.”

A shiver slides down my spine. It’s not just the words; it’s the way he says them. Like a question. Like an answer. A vow made just for me.

My breath catches. “You got it right this time.”

He gives a half smile. “Figured you’d appreciate the effort.”

I do. God, I do. Because Warren Mercer isn’t the kind of guy who recites poetry for no reason. And hearing him say the words I love most—softly, intentionally, with his mouth this close to mine—might actually be the sexiest thing I’ve ever experienced.

I skim my fingers over the surface of the water. “You planning on finishing the poem, or was that all you could memorize?”

He doesn’t answer, just reaches out, fingers brushing against the curve of my jaw. Gently. Like he’s waiting for me to stop him.

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