Page 16 of Quarantine Crush
Secretly, I debate letting her win to put us back on even footing again. Maybe a win will end this weird-ass tension once and for all.
Shoulder to shoulder, we step up to the pool’s edge.
When I turn to look at her, there’s no trace of anything but the challenge itself. Determination mixed with a fair amount of shit talking.
“You’re going down, Hess.”
“You wish.” She smirks. “All that hot air you waste talking shit is going to cost you.”
My eyes land on her sculpted mouth, and I am unexpectedly lost in the perfect shape of it. The way her bottom lip is slightly fuller than the upper–
She catches me staring, and her smirk turns to a frown.
Shit.
When I look up at her eyes again, they’re full of something I can’t read.
“Ready, set, go,” she calls and then leaps into the pool.
I jump in a split second after.
Both of us point our toes, sliding into the water jack-knife style. I sink straight to the bottom and concentrate on relaxing my body there. With eyes open, I can see Emy doing the same thing she always does during our contests–counting the seconds on her slim fingers.
One, two, three, four, five…
I watch as she counts us off. At ten, she rolls over to one, yet we both know she’s still counting upward in her head. It gives us both something to focus on besides the ever-growing need to breathe.
Back in the day, I won as much as I lost. Okay, fine, I may have let her win a few more.
However today, after two deluxe Bloody Marys, my lungs hate me. Within seconds, they are ready to explode, and way too soon, I am forced to shoot to the surface and inhale. Emy pops up next to me, hooting in triumph.
“Hell yeah,” she calls, pumping her fists.
I’m pretty sure that earns us glares from the moms, but I don’t care. Emy’s happy, and everything feels normal again.
“I guess Brits don’t have swimming pools,” she taunts. “Or clean air. What’s up? Your lungs shriveling in your old age?”
The shit-talking triggers me, and my eyes narrow. “Oh, you got jokes, huh?”
I grab her a second before she sees it coming, wrapping an arm around her waist and using the momentum to sink us both. When we come up, Emy’s sputtering, but her grip around my shoulders is firm, her sharp nails digging into my wet skin.
I wince in pain, and it’s the distraction she needs to send me off balance. I’m dunked underneath the surface to the sound of Emy’s laughter.
After that, it’s a shitshow of splashing and dunking and screams–mostly from Emy. She gives as good as she gets though.
Finally, I’m out of breath enough to give it up. Emy stalls too, and I blink at the sight of her face so close to mine. Her wet mouth hovers a breath away from my own, and my gaze flicks there. I’m also hyper-aware of the feel of her slicked skin against my own.
Her lips are parted, her chest heaving with labored breaths. Her ample cleavage brushes against my bare chest with each huff, and down below, in my duck trunks, I can feel myself react.
I drop her like she’s burned me, backing away like some kind of spooked animal and fully aware that I’m the one who’s made it weird again.
Fuck.
“You win,” I say, and even I can hear how completely fucking lame it sounds.
We both know that’s not what sent me running.
But she smiles, forced as it is, and starts for the chair where we left our rented towels. “Last one out pays for dinner!”
