Page 49 of The Impossible Princess
“And you’ll have time to shower when you get home?”
“I had planned on it. What—”
I grab her around the knees and toss her over my shoulder, striding down to the dock. Hooking the backs of her shoes with my finger, I peel them off as I go. They land with a thunk on the wood, and she shouts my name.
“This is very friendly,” I tell her and she’s difficult to keep hold of because she’s laughing so hard. I pause at the end of the dock, pulling her down into my arms, my breath catching for a second before I begin rocking her. The plan was to pitch her in, but she takes me with her, and we fall together, the cold water a shock in the hot sun.
We crest the surface at the same time, drawing air and shaking the water from our eyes.
“That was an act of war,” she gasps.
We’re treading water, circling each other. Then her fingertips brush my waist and mine graze the length of her arm. Her hair is smoothed back from the crown of her head, and I can only see brilliant green eyes in a tan face. Staring at one another, we slip for a brief moment into a deep pool, the sparkling holiday mood submerged in awareness and wanting. Her palm rests against my chest.
Then she laughs, kicking away from me and pushing a wave of water into my face. I retaliate. She shoves me underwater and I grasp her ankle, tugging her with me. The play goes on until I roll onto my back and grin. The sun on the water is blindingly bright.
After the cool water, we dry out on the dock. I wring out my shirt, draping it on a pylon, and we lie on our stomachs, arms pillowing our heads and letting the afternoon sunshine bake into our limbs.
“You were at the care center to talk about dementia?”
Her nose wrinkles. She has that warm skin of her father’s that tans easily, but I am close enough to see that she has freckles. “No, actually. It was something to do with the environment again. Energy conservation.”
“You’ve had a lot of those assignments recently?”
She nods her head. “It’s very important, making sure the planet doesn’t burst into flames, but—”
“It’s not the one you feel passionately about.”
“Yeah,” she emits a small sigh. “I know I should just do what my mother assigns me to do. Maybe you could teach me how to follow orders.”
“No,” I answer, reaching across the old wooden dock. She reaches too and our fingers lace together. Friendly and not. “You should find something you love.”
“Easier said than done. I’m not even certain where my interests lie.”
I stifle a yawn, wishing I could stay just like this, her hand in mine, the sun baking us into crispkyriekager, fresh from the oven. “You don’t know what interests you? You’ve been talking my ear off about your godmother, those doors, that village in Vorburg. Why don’t you ask for that?”
Her hand tightens on mine.
23
Clash Horribly
CLARA
I’m a mess even after the dunking, and Max sends me into the cottage for a change of clothes. The stairs leading off from the kitchen are steep and narrow, the landing tiny, and I follow his directions left to his room, finding a pair of soft old jeans and a worn t-shirt folded with military precision on the bed, a belt coiled nearby.
I pick them up and pivot slowly, not above a little snooping. There is a white down coverlet on the bed, a spare birch side table with a clock, a snapshot of his family, and a book. I shuck my dripping shorts and, bending to tug on the oversized jeans, read the title.Sondish Seas: The Legends and Poetry of Native Sailors. A desk sits under the eaves, covered in engineering prints. A childish finger painting of a gray blob on blue water is taped to the wall. I work my way out of my top and don the loose t-shirt, giving the detergent a sniff. Citrus. That’s one of Max’s smells.
“Did you find everything?” he calls from below, and I spin, picking up my soaking clothes and the belt before making my way to the kitchen.
“You’re a giant. I’m drowning in these clothes,” I say, finding him rinsing produce at the sink.
Such a pedestrian activity. I suppose I should be thankful he’s wrung his shirt out and put it back on since I can feel my IQ nosedive every time I see his abs or the breadth of his shoulders. But it’s nosediving now, too.
He smiles. “Let me introduce you to the genius of the woven belt.” He plucks it from my hand and threads it through the loops, the back of his hands brushing my sensitive skin. His absorption in his task has brought his neck within kissing distance. I can’t step away, so I close my eyes and hold my breath until he slots the prong between the weave and cinches me up.
We eat our lunch standing in his kitchen, spitting cherry pits out on paper towels, and finish a third side of the cottage before I look at the time and give a yelp. I will be cutting it fine if I don’t leave this second.
“You can clean up?” I ask, wrapping my brush in a damp rag. Max is on a ladder, swiping the white paint more skillfully than I had been able to manage. A muscle in his arm rolls, an interesting new shape forms, and I want to trace my fingers over the path. Only friends. We have affirmed it several times today, but the first glimpse of his hard stomach had me trying to wriggle out of my good intentions.
