Page 79 of The Wrong Heart

My smile blooms brighter, and I can’t help the delirious laughter from spilling free.

He’s here. He’s in the water with me.

Forme.

There is something magically inconceivable about that.

“Dance with me,” I urge him, fumbling for his wet hands and holding them in mine. I swing his arms side to side, shimmying us in a ridiculous series of movements that don’t at all resemble dancing. But it’s joyful and fulfilling andfun, and for a startling moment, I feel complete again.

Parker doesn’t make any effort to move with me, but he doesn’t resist my attempts either. He just stands there, shaking his head, staring off over my shoulder and allowing me to turn him into my impervious dance partner.

And then I start to sing.

Don’t Stop Believing.

Because terrible lake dancing obviously calls for a hideous karaoke rendition of Journey’s greatest hit.

I belt the off-key lyrics, out of breath, still swinging Parker’s arms around with zero coordination and a lot of accidental splashes to his face.

He stares at me like I’ve gone mad, and maybe I have, maybe I really have, but when I force myself into the most awkward twirl ever, dipping underneath his arm that I’m holding high above my head, the unthinkable happens.

I complete my spin, nearly losing my balance, and face Parker just as he starts to smile.

Hesmiles.

An amused burst of laughter accompanies his grin, and I go still, clinging to his hand. “Oh, my God.”

“My thoughts exactly,” he mutters teasingly, looking down at me with eyes made of mint and mayhem.

Or magic. Maybe it’s magic.

Lunging myself at him, I almost topple us both into the water as I slink my arms around his neck and pull him down, murmuring into the crook of his shoulder. “You smiled… you smiled, Parker.”

His body stiffens in my hold, his own arms hanging rigid at his sides. The water tickles my waistline as I try to inch up on my tiptoes and hug him tighter to me, my lips lightly grazing the little water droplets that roll down the arch of his neck. I inhale a shuddering breath, my fingers curling around his nape, playing with the damp scruff of hair.

His words in my bathroom skip across my memory:

“Smiles should be saved for things that bring us real joy.”

I brought him real joy.Me.

Acting like a fool in a murky lake, singing off-key, and dancing like no one was watching.

Buthewas watching. And it made him smile.

My grip on him strengthens, and I can’t help but press a tiny kiss to the side of his neck, nuzzling my nose into the glistening skin above his collar.

Parker’s breathing shifts from slow and steady to uneven. “What are you doing,” he mutters, and I think it’s supposed to be a question, a blatant demand, but it comes across more like a whispered breath—something unwittingly vulnerable.

I lower my arms, skimming my fingers down his torso, feeling him shiver, then I reach for his hands. Hands wound so tight, his limbs must ache.

Cradling his fists in my palms, I lift them to my hips, dragging them underneath my wet blouse until his fingers uncurl and grip my waist. Hard at first, his tension palpable, causing me to bow against him with a little whimper. Then his grasp softens, so I sweep his hands up further, over my ribs, until his fingertips brush the underwire of my bra. The water ripples around us as he inhales sharply. “Tell me what you feel,” I say, my voice quaking, knees quivering.

Parker’s hands slide back down over my slick skin, trailing the shape of my curves, then he latches onto my hipbones and tugs me closer. “You say that as if you think I know how.”

My gasp meets the front of his chest. “You do.”

“I’ll never feel things like you feel, Melody. I’m not wired that way.”

---