Page 48 of The Fake Out Flex

I step out of the water and stalk toward her.

"I'm getting nervous," she says as I get closer.

And closer.

Until I'm standing right in front of her.

So close that her vanilla fragrance infiltrates my nose.

So close that I notice the freckles on her nose are gone. Because I'm assuming that makeup has the power to make freckles disappear, right?

So close that as the sun begins to set, I can see every fleck of brown and green and gold swirling in her beautiful eyes.

"Trust me," I murmur. "I won't get your dress wet."

"Um…"

"Say yes, Evie."

She sighs out a quivery breath. "Okay, yes."

"I won't get your dress wet," I repeat. "But I am getting my dance with you."

And with that, I bend over, lift her in my arms again, and carry her into the water. "You can't be serious. This is how we're going to dance?"

"It sure is. Now, I've got something in my back pocket," I say.

"Bet you say that to all the ladies."

I chuckle. "My phone, Evie. Could you take it out please?"

"Why do you need your phone right now? I thought you didn't do social media."

"I don't," I reply. "And I don't want to take a photo. Call me crazy, but I need music to dance to."

"Oh. Right." She shifts her weight. "I'm going in. No funny business, mister."

"You're the one about to grope me. I'm innocent," I say, smiling.

"For the record, I am not groping you."

Is it wrong that I wouldn't mind if she did?

With her tongue poking out the side of her mouth in concentration, she reaches behind me. Her hand slips into my back pocket for barely a second as she retrieves my phone.

"Your phone's locked," she informs me. "Do you have face ID?"

"No. Only fingerprint or code. And since my fingers are otherwise occupied, I'll give you my code."

Evie looks at me like I just told her I'm quitting hockey to fulfill my secret lifelong rock star ambition and will be joining the band Levi manages.

She blinks hard. "You'll give me the code to your phone? Just like that?"

"I trust you. Besides, I have two shovels in my trunk, remember? And I'm ninety-five percent sure you're not some sexy enemy double agent, or worse, an undercover reporter."

"Technically, I am a reporter," she points out.

"Technically, you're the only good one."

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