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Something brushed under her kicking feet. She could barely feel her feet, numbed from the cold, but she knew she was touching sand and rock as her body lifted from the water. Then wet moss and more sand against her back as Chris set her on the shore.
She was lying on her back, looking up, and when Chris leaned over her, the setting sun haloed his head, turning his dark blond hair to the bright gold of an angel. Her gaze settled on his wide lips.
Couldn’t she have drowned just a little more? Enough to require mouth-to-mouth resuscitation?
Really? That was what she was thinking after nearly dying?
She blamed oxygen deprivation.
“I… I can’t swim,” she said. “In case… case you didn’t… figure that out.”
Those wide lips curved, the smile not reaching his worried eyes. “I’m so sorry, D.”
“I should—should have mentioned it.”
“And I should have asked.”
He reached down to hug her, the heat of him coming through his drenched shirt, like a blazing fire after a long night of snowshoeing, and she fell into his arms, shivering.
“That was great,” came Sofia’s voice from the distance. “At first, I was like, mmm, a bit much, staging the canoe capsizing, dramatic rescue, but that end part? You coming out, soaking wet, with Dana over your arms? That was…”
Sofia trailed off, as if she’d drawn close enough for a better look.
Daphne choked and sputtered, turning her head to one side as she retched up lake water. Then she started shivering again, this time convulsively.
“Oh my God!” Sofia said. “You didn’t stage—”
Chris scooped Daphne up. “We need to get her in the house. Now.”
CHRIS
“Alone at last,” Chris said.
Daphne looked over at him from the deck chair—where she was completely cocooned in blankets, propane heater blazing at her feet, mug of cocoa in one hand, towel wrapped around her wet hair—and she laughed. At first, it was a choked half laugh. Then it got louder and she started snorting. Her hand flew over her mouth in that adorable way it did when she thought—incorrectly—that her snorting laughs were less than adorable.
Daphne was fine. Thank God. He didn’t even want to think about what could have happened. When he’d dumped a shot of Irish whiskey into her cocoa, he might have added some to his as well, to banish the memory of that moment when he’d surfaced, looked for her, and seen an empty lake. That moment when he realized he’d turned down life vests for both of them.
“Chris?” she said.
He took a burning gulp of booze-laced chocolate. “Never thought we’d get rid of them. Sure, staging a drowning might have gone too far, but they just weren’t leaving. Film crews.”
This time, she didn’t laugh. Didn’t even smile.
“You saved my life,” she said.
He started to make a joke about her saving his life, this job having rescued his professional career, but it’d be as poor a joke as the film crew one.
He wanted to joke. Make light. Make her laugh. Especially make her laugh.
Instead, he said, “I wouldn’t have needed to if I hadn’t agreed to skip the life vests.”
“And, being an adult, I should have insisted on one for myself.”
He understood why she didn’t. For the same reason he’d pretended he knew how to chop wood. No one wants to admit to what they perceive—or worry others might perceive—as a failing. A guy not knowing how to chop firewood. An outdoor enthusiast who can’t swim.
“We need a signal,” he said.
“For…?”
