Page 10 of Wild River

“There’s hot water.” Reluctantly letting go of Becca’s hand, I nudge her toward the bathroom. “You take a shower and warm up while I find you some spare clothes, then we’ll check over your injuries and take it from there.”

I’d be more bossy about the medical side, but Becca seems miraculously fine after nearly drowning in the river. She chatted happily for the whole walk here, and her breaths were sounding normal. No telltale gurgling sounds of waterlogged lungs. Honestly, her dress seems more beat up by the whole ordeal than she does, because there are only a few cuts and scratches visible on her bare limbs, and she stopped shaking a while back.

If I hadn’t caught her motionless body myself, if I hadn’t been the one to perform CPR, I’d question whether the whole thing even happened at all. But the memory of her chalk-white face sends a shiver down my spine.

Thank god I went fishing today. Thank god.

“Okay.” Becca strolls toward the bathroom door. “But will you help with the buttons on my dress?”

A bolt of arousal spears through my gut, and I go still as stone.

“Sure,” I rasp.

Fuck.

* * *

The bathroom isn’t tiny, but with both of us crammed between the sink and the shower, it suddenly feels small as hell. Everywhere I shift, everywhere I look, I’m accidentally nudging Becca or glimpsing her bare skin or catching her eye in the mirror.

“You’re blushing,” she points out, brimming with delight. She’s practically bouncing on her toes, overjoyed to get me twisted in knots like this. Glad one of us finds it funny.

Becca’s facing away from me, her back to my chest, with my plaid shirt tossed on the sink edge. This dress of hers hides absolutely nothing with the fabric soaked through; she might as well be buck-ass nude. And still, there are dozens of fussy little buttons to undo down her spine.

These buttons would be bad enough, but now that the material is damp, they’re sticking and bloated. It’s an impossible task, and at this rate, by the time I get them undone one by one, it’ll be nightfall.

“Becca?” I address the nape of her neck. It’s one of the few safe parts of her body for me to look at, and it’s also the prettiest nape I’ve ever seen. This woman is so goddamn elegant. She’s a wonder of nature.

“Hm?”

“Do you want to keep this dress?”

She scoffs. “No. I didn’t want to keep itbeforeit got soaked and torn to shreds.”

Well, then. Gripping both sides of the fabric, I rip the back of the dress open in one strong motion. Becca makes a shocked sound, clutching the edge of the sink for balance.

Just being practical. Nothing to see here.

But we’re both pink-cheeked in the mirror, both breathing hard. Becca’s slender back is bare. Her hands shake as they reach up and start pulling twigs and hairpins from the snarl of her red hair. “Th-thanks.”

“No problem.”

And… I should go. She asked for help with her dress, and I’ve torn it half open. There’s no excuse for me to linger, and yet—

“You want help with your hair?”

She beams at me in the mirror. “Yes, please.”

We lapse into silence, both focused on undoing the mess on her head. Whenever either of us pulls a twig or hairpin free, we set it beside the sink in a growing pile.

“This sure is a strange choice of outfit to go hiking, Becca.”

She shoots me an odd look in the mirror. “I wasn’t hiking. This is a wedding dress.”

White static fills my brain, and I snatch my hands away, holding them aloft in horror.

A wedding dress? Becca was getting married today?

She’sengaged?

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