Page 39 of Eight Count Heat
"Wouldn't dream of it."
I pull away from campus, taking the winding road that leads to the undeveloped side of the lake. The night air is cool, carrying the scent of water and pine. Behind me, I feel Reese gradually relax, her grip settling into something more natural.
The turnoff I want is barely visible, hidden between two large rocks. I slow way down as we bump over the uneven path, threading between trees until we reach the clearing.
The lake opens up before us, black and still under a quarter moon. A small beach curves along the water's edge, nothing fancy but completely private. I've been coming here since freshman year, usually when the team house gets too loud or my head gets too full.
I kill the engine and the forest sounds rush in. Crickets, an owl, water lapping gently at the shore.
Reese climbs off and removes her helmet, hair falling loose around her shoulders. She looks around, taking it in.
"How did you find this place?"
I shrug, setting my helmet on the bike. "Exploring. First week here."
"Does anyone else know about it?"
"Just you now." I watch her face, then look away. "Seemed like you might need somewhere like this."
She's quiet for a moment, staring out at the water. "That obvious, huh?"
"To me."
We stand in silence, watching moonlight ripple across the surface of the lake. The quiet between us isn't uncomfortable. Most people try to fill silence, nervous energy spilling out in pointless chatter. Reese doesn't. Another thing I've noticed about her.
"I swim here sometimes," I say, surprising myself by offering information unprompted. "When it's warm enough."
"Is it warm enough now?" She looks at the water, thoughtful.
"Not exactly. But not unbearable."
A small smile plays at the corners of her mouth. "Sounds like a challenge."
"It wasn't."
"Too late." She kicks off her shoes, then hesitates. "Turn around."
I raise an eyebrow but comply, turning my back to her. Fabric rustles behind me. I focus on the trees, the sky, anything to keep from imagining what's happening behind me.
"You can look now," she calls.
I turn to find her standing in a black sports bra and the running shorts she was wearing under her sweats. Her body is compact, athletic, the muscles in her arms and shoulders defined from years of handling steering lines and dragging boats.
She shifts under my gaze, suddenly self-conscious. "What?"
"Nothing," I say quickly. "You're not what coxswains usually look like."
"And what do they usually look like?" The challenge in her voice is back.
"Smaller. Frailer."
"Disappointed?" A hint of something vulnerable under the bravado.
"No." My voice is rough so I clear my throat. "Are you going in or just standing there?"
She narrows her eyes, then turns and walks to the water's edge. Tests it with one toe and flinches.
"Cold," she says.
