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She holds her arms out. “You told me to bring a swimsuit.”
Stop staring, dipshit. Except, I can’t.
“I had to get a new bathing suit since I didn’t have one.”
“Wait…” Her confession breaks my trance. “You didn’t own a swimsuit? You live in Texas.”
She shrugs, laying out a towel across the bench seat in the front left of the boat. “I mean, I had a swimsuit. But when I was getting ready to move, I donated all my clothes to charity. I hadn’t gotten one since I left.”
“You were really starting over, huh?”
She nods. “I was ready for a change,” she says, sitting down and stretching out her legs. I understand that more than most, having done it myself at eighteen—I left and never turned back. “Turned out not to be quite the change I was looking for, but…” Her voice fades away.
I focus on steering the boat from the slip, giving her a moment without me staring at her.
Why? Why did I do this to myself on our first date?
I glance over. “But you’re doing it. I’m in awe of how strong you are.”
She peers over at me with a lopsided grin. “You’re giving me too much credit. He still lives in my head. His voice—even though I never heard him—is always there, threatening me. Which is weird, right? How in the world do I know what he sounds like?”
“A lot of times, our brains project what we think we heard or saw. It’s the same with witnesses. Often, it’s hard to take witness accounts as facts unless we get multiple sources saying they saw the same thing. But we could have five witnesses who all say the person was wearing five different color shirts.”
She stares out at the water. “Yeah. That must be it.”
As we pick up speed, the wind drowns out our words, so she settles across the cushions, taking in the sun while it’s still out. The boat glides over smooth waters, the surface sparkling like a thousand diamonds as we make our way farther out. I’ve spent countless weekends on this lake, so I know the entire layout—where to avoid and where the best places are.
When I make it to my favorite spot by the dam, I kill the engine and let the boat drift. Walking over to the cooler, I grab a couple Coronas and hand her one. Then I pull out the picnic basket from the cooler.
“Wow. You thought of everything,” she says as I unpack a board of cheese and meat and remove the plastic wrap.
I will never remember what the hell women call these things. When Joy, our nosy admin, overheard Liam and me talking about my date, she suggested ordering one of these trays. I thought she was talking Spanish when she called it by its name.
“Aww. I love this charcuterie board. You didn’t make this, did you?”
There’s that dumb name. Who would name something so difficult to remember and say?
“Would you believe me if I said yes?”
She stares at me, contemplating. “You’re pretty talented with your hands.” I fight the wicked grin growing on my face by coughing once and pulling out the plates. She has no idea, but I’d love to show her how skilled they can be. “So, maybe.”
My ego grows a little larger that she thinks I can do anything. Could I have made this? Heck yeah, it doesn’t take a sous chef to make one of these. It’s cubed cheese, sliced meats, throw in some nuts and fruit, and you have a fancy board. Mine wouldn’t look this decorated—still not sure why the same kind of nuts are in three different spots—but who cares? It’s here to eat, not to be admired. But I didn’t have time to do it myself.
“I’d like to say it was me to impress you, but sorry, I don’t make shark cuties.”
She burst out laughing. “What was that?”
I chuckle with embarrassment, but it’s so worth it to witness her deep belly laugh. “Whatever the hell you called it. I don’t do those.”
She’s laughing so hard, tears well up in her eyes. She pats them away, sniffs, and says, “They’ll always be shark cuties to me now.” I cock my head to the side and stare at her while she composes herself. Kali is the only woman that can get away with making me the butt end of a joke. “Don’t be mad. It’s…adorable.” I lift a brow as she pops a grape into her mouth.
Sweet. Adorable. Who the fuck am I turning into?
I point a toothpick at her. “If you ever tell a soul, expect your steak to come out charred from now on.”
She gasps, edging closer to me. “Now, sir, we do not joke about overcooking meat around these parts.” She’s so close, I can smell her suntan lotion.
She leans over and cuts a piece of cheese and brings it to my mouth. Calling me sir and having her feed me has caught the attention of my dick. Poor guy, it’s been six months since he’s seen any action…other than my hand. I fight to think with the rational head.
