Page 12 of Campfires & Canines
Hands grip my ribcage and lift me up and out of the water. Slate hauls me against him. My soaked chest presses against his shirt and I swear I can feel his muscles even through all the layers of fabric.
I grip his biceps, ragged breaths pushing the panic down.
"Don’t worry. I’ve got you." His voice breaks through.
I look up, meeting his gaze. Those dark green eyes are gold in the center around pupils rapidly expanding as he looks down at me. My neck flushes as my feet settle on the bottom. Did he seriously just rescue me from water that's only three or four feet deep?
I manage to step away, grasping at the rock that betrayed me instead.
His jaw is tight and his posture is stiff. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine, just an idiot." My tone is too sharp and my cheeks are flaming. We are both waist-deep in creek water. I’d prefer to sink under the surface to avoid this embarrassment.
"Are you sure you didn't hit the bottom or maybe a rock?" He searches me for injuries, though he doesn't touch me again.
"Seriously, I'm totally okay." I press my lips together, my shame transforming into anger.
"It's slippery here. You’ve got to watch for moss." He is trying to make me feel better, blaming my fall on slippery moss. But it feels like I'm being chastised for a stupid accident.
"Oh, the moss. Of course." Sarcasm creeps in.
Slate laughs, his face transformed. His fine features, straight nose, and high cheekbones go from looking like a tortured artist to an absolute work of art. But then he catches himself and the professional mask falls into place. The loss of his smile is a physical pain in my hollow chest.
"Hazel, what are you doing down here?" He prompts, his voice lowering. If all the hair on my body wasn’t already standing on end from my polar plunge, then I’d get goosebumps from the texture of his voice.
"What are you doing here?" A lame retort, but I'm having difficulty thinking clearly.
"Hiking." His answer is automatic. He looks at me, waiting for my answer now that he’s given his.
"I was reading." I offer up with a simper. He grabs my bag from the rock. Thank sweet baby Zeus, it was safe from my accidental drenching.
He cups my elbow as we step out of the water onto the rocky shoreline.
“You shouldn’t be this far from the cabins,” he says.
“That’s not fair,” I argue.
Slate peels his wet shirt over his head, revealing a chest that is far more defined than I expect on his lean frame.
The tattoos on his arms continue across his chest and around his back. Wildflowers and greenery swirl across his skin. I've never seen tattoos like these.
I slam my jaw shut, embarrassed it was hanging open to begin with. But considering the display in front of me, can you blame me?
He squeezes the water out of his shirt and then drapes it over his shoulder.
"You could have gotten-" He stops as I peel off my sweatshirt and drape it over a rock to drip dry. I tug the hem of my shirt, worried it lifted with my sweatshirt, but it stayed safely in place.
I peer up at him, his face unreadable.
"I was following a trail. I wasn't going to get lost."
I make the mistake of letting my gaze drift downwards. His bare chest is dotted with water droplets. It only gets worse. Lower still, his sweatpants are soaked. They hang low over his hips, clinging to his thighs and everything else–
I yank my eyes up. "You need to listen to your uncle. You absolutely could get lost or injured. You’ve got to be careful," he says.
He isn't even looking at me. He scans the forest around us as if preparing for a bear to leap out and try to eat us.
“You’re out here,” I argue again.
