Page 54 of All Signs Point to Malibu

Warren’s having no trouble. Head down, he’s writing up a playlist storm and humming the most awful song from the eighties!

I reach across the table and steal Warren’s list of song choices, then jump up and run away. I have no idea where I’m going or how to escape the backyard, but this playlist can’t happen.

Warren jumps up and chases after me, catches me effortlessly less than halfway across the yard. “Give me back my list,” he says behind me, his arms around my waist, as he lifts me off the ground.

“No,” I say, struggling to break free.

He holds me with one arm as he tickles my waist and ribcage with the other. I kick and flail as I laugh but stuff the paper in my pocket. “All these songs suck!”

“You haven’t even looked at it yet,” he says.

“I don’t have to. You have sucky taste. You suck!” I say, but I’m giggling so hard that I can’t make the words sound even half serious.

Truth is, he doesn’t suck. Not nearly as much as I thought he did. Or nearly as much as I want him to.

He’s actually...fun.

“Okay, that’s it,” he says.

Next thing I know, his hands are under my knees and back as he carries me across the yard and straight toward the pool.

Oh shit.

My body seems to fly into the air for an excruciatingly long moment, though not long enough that I remember to hold my breath before I hit the water. I take in a mouthful of chlorine in my shock at Warren’s actions and the chill water on my scorching, sweaty skin.

As I surface, Warren’s laughing on the pool deck.

“I can’t believe you did that.”

“Shouldn’t have messed with my playlist,” he says, but then a second later, jeans on, he jumps in with me, creating a tidal wave that nearly drowns me again.

I shriek but the sound gets trapped somewhere in my chest as he resurfaces and runs his hands through his wet hair, slicking it away from his face.

Jesus, he’s even hotter wet.

And speaking of wet...

He splashes me, breaking the spell his water droplet–covered torso had me under.

I lunge at him, grip the top of his head and push down, submerging him below the surface. He grips my waist and yanks me down below with him. His arm is still around my waist as we stare at one another under the water, little bubbles of air floating up between us. His gaze is amused, filled with a hint of disbelief that I’m capable of giving as much as I’m taking—as though my fiery, challenging nature is a turn-on for him.

And out of nowhere, a song fromThe Little Mermaidmovie starts to play in my mind.

Kiss the girl...

What? No. I don’t want him to kiss me. That would be ridiculous...

Out of breath, we resurface. Warren still has his arm around my waist and the temptation to straddle him like a new inflatable—a hard, sexy floatie—is overwhelming. Water droplets form on his face and drip from his five o’clock shadow. His gaze is on me and I know this unexpected fun has the same unsettling impact on him. Blue eyes blaze into mine then flitter to my mouth with a look of unconcealed temptation.

My cell phone rings on the pool deck, breaking the silence and the tense moment.

Thank God?

I twist out of his arms, swim to the ladder and hurry toward my cell as quickly as wet denim will allow. I pick it up and see “Coach Baxter” on the call display and hold my breath.

Please, please, please be calling with good news.

I take a deep, calming breath—not an easy task with my heart still pounding and my body still twitching with desire for Warren—then answer, “Hailey...” Remembering Warren’s comment about my influencer voice, I clear my throat and start again in my normal voice. “Hailey Harris.”

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