Page 22 of The Book Club Boyfriend
“So you’re just going to live up here now?”
“Maybe.”
I snort. “It’s seaweed, not the Loch Ness monster. But if you’re scared, I guess I could carry youback to shore—”
“I’m notscared.”
“You sure about that?”
That’s when I realize this position—her wrapped around me, wet and warm, pressing closer with every wave—is about to become a problem. My body starts to tighten in ways that have absolutely no business in a water rescue.
Do not go there, Remington. You’re a grown man, not a thirteen-year-old who just discovered the Victoria’s Secret catalog. Focus on... seaweed. Very unsexy seaweed.
“Put me down.”
“Say please.”
“Don’t make me kill you today, Remington.”
I chuckle, finally letting her slide down. It’s torture—the slow drag of her body against mine, wet skin on wet skin, her curves pressing into me the whole way down. My hands settle on her waist for a beat longer than necessary, thumbs brushing the strip of bare skin just above her bikini bottoms. She feels good pressed against me, warm and soft despite the cold water, her pulse fluttering under my fingertips.
The second her feet hit the sandbar, she shoves away from me, muttering something under her breath that sounds vaguely like“arrogantbastard.”
I grin.
She insults me, and I smile.
Make it make sense.
She storms out of the water like an avenging sea goddess, shoulders tense, hair dripping, her hips swaying in a way that makes my mouth water.
Harper and Evie are waiting on shore, both of them openly wheezing with laughter.
Harper gasps. “That wassoworth the trip.”
Rip trots happily beside her, tail wagging, and immediately betrays me by rubbing his wet, sandy body all over Scarlett’s legs.
Ilose itagain.
Scarlett looks to the sky as if she’s questioning every life decision that led her to this moment.
Harper, still grinning, passes her a margarita. “Here. Youreallyneed this.”
Scarlett takes a long sip and lets out a sigh of contentment.
I toss Rip’s ball and shake my head, unable to wipe the smirk off my face.
Thissummerjust keeps getting better.
After Scarlett downs half the margarita, I watch her settle back onto the towel, still muttering about “vicious seaweed attacks.”
The other girls drift into their own conversations, and for a moment, it’s just us—well, us and Rip, who has decided that Scarlett’s leg makes an excellent pillow.
“You good?” I ask, dropping onto the sand next to her.
She’s quiet for a beat, absently running her fingers through Rip’s fur.
“I haven’t been in the water in years.”
