Page 24 of I Do With You

I look down at his ripped faded-black jeans, plain black T-shirt, and the same brown, worn boots he had on when hiking. “Do you have any other clothes? Or is this the daily uniform?” Don’t get me wrong, he looks good in what he has on, but I don’t think I could wear the same thing every day. Even my scrubs for work are patterned and colorful.

“It’s an aesthetic,” he argues, raising one dark brow in challenge. “And it makes getting dressed easy.”

“Yeah, but goth isn’t the usual vibe for summer fun. And you, my friend, asked me to show you the Maple Creek experience, so water sports are happening. Let’s go!”

I swear Ben chokes on his spit, because he sputters, “Hope,water sportsdoesnotmean what you think it does. And they most definitely arenothappening.” I don’t know what he’s talking about or why he’s fighting back a grin. And I definitely don’t know why he scrubs his hand down his face with a sigh.

“Water sports—like swimming, diving, Jet Skis, tubing,” I explain. “And yes, they are. At least swimming. Or swimming adjacent.”

He chuckles but, not accepting any more arguments, I enter the store. Immediately, I freeze, realizing how much I just fucked up.

I hadn’t thought about whether the people here would be Team Hope or Team Roy, and now it’s too late to backtrack.

I duck behind a rack of swimwear, peering over at the cash register. Ben steps up next to me, laying a lazy arm over the row of hangers and conveniently blocking me from view with his height. “How do we feel about the girl at the front? Need me to distract her with water-sport conversation while you make a run for it?”

I’m definitely looking up what the hell he’s talking about later because now when he says it,water sportssounds like something I definitely don’t want him discussing with the girl in the store. Arching a brow, I meet his gaze, but the tease in his voice doesn’t match the concern I see in his eyes.

I could run. It’d be easy, and Ben would cover for me. But I’ve done nothing wrong, and it feels important that I don’t act like I have.

Straightening my back to stand tall, I shake my head. “Nope, I got this.”

Behind me, I hear him mutter, “Yeah, you do.”

I work my way through the racks of souvenir shirts emblazoned with the Maple Creek city logo and get to the more functional clothing at the back, heading to the swimsuits. I grab a plain one-piece in a pretty baby blue I know will look good with my eyes, and then I turn to the men’s suits.

There’s a pair of solid black shorts that would probably be the best choice for Ben. But that’s not what I grab. Nope, if he’s stepping out of his comfort zone, we’re going all the way out, in style. So instead, I pick up a neon highlighter-yellow pair with pink flamingos on them. “Perfect!” I tell him, holding them up for his approval even though I know I won’t get it.

“Abso-fucking-lutely not,” he growls, trying to pull them from my hands. We tussle for a second, but I keep a tight grip on them, and when he begrudgingly lets go, I hold the suit up to him, the back of my hand brushing just above his waist.

I smile and flash puppy dog eyes at him. He shakes his head harder. I flutter my lashes. He crosses his arms.

I pull out the big guns: sticking my bottom lip out in a pout.

“Fuck.” He snatches the shorts from my hand, conceding this time, and I do a little victory dance, pumping my fists in the air and stomping my feet as I turn in a circle. “Don’t celebrate too hard. You picked for me, so I’m picking for you.”

“Wha—” I balk. “That’s not ... Nuh-uh.”

Ben arches a sharp brow my way. “Yes or no?”

He’s giving me a choice, an important distinction for a woman who has been going along with what everyone else wants. No, not everyone—Roy. But I can’t blame it all on him. I’m equally to blame, and should’ve listened to what my gut was screaming at me sooner.

Do it! Do it! Do it!

I’m not sure if it’s a devil on my shoulder or just Joy cheering me on. But I decide to listen either way.

I roll my eyes, lifting a shoulder like this is no big deal. “Fine.” I don’t think there’s anything too wild anyway. A bikini? I’ve worn those roughly a bajillion times. I even special ordered a teeny-tiny one for my honeymoon, so anything in this store will be perfectly reasonable.

Ben scours the racks, teasingly holding up everything from knee-length skirted numbers to ones that basically amount to a collection of spandex strings, measuring them all against my body like he’s picturing me in each one.

I pose sassily with a hot-pink two-piece, one hand on my hip and my head tilted jauntily. “This one? It matches your flamingos.”

Ben stares at me for a long moment, his eyes dripping over the suit. Over me. The silly fun we’ve been having evaporates, leaving something else that’s entirely unexpected, something heated that steals my breath away. I swear I can feel his gaze on my skin like an actual physical touch, especially when it lingers over my breasts and explores every inch of my bare legs.

His voice rough, Ben growls, “The blue one’s fine.” He jerks his chin toward the one-piece I originally selected and then spins around, giving me his back.

What just happened?

I’m not sure, but I follow Ben, who seems to be running to the register or away from me. Or both. The girl—Maddie, according to her name tag—scowls at me. “Who’s this, Hope?” she asks as she looks Ben up and down, her nose crinkled and lips twisted in a sneer as though he smells like rotten catfish bait.

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