Page 39 of Spring Break with a Slap Shot

His laughter rings out, joyful and free, as another flash of lightning illuminates us. In that split-second of brightness, with rain soaking us to the skin and Dakota's arm firm around my waist, I understand something I've missed in all my careful predictions and analyses.

Some forces of nature can't be forecast. They can only be experienced, embraced, surrendered to. The storm above us. The man beside me. The love I've been running from and toward all at once.

I'm done running. I'm finally home.

Chapter 20-Dakota

The sky cracks open like a water balloon, and we're sprinting across the parking lot, Harmony's hand clutched in mine. Rain pelts us like tiny bullets, soaking through my thin t-shirt in seconds. Her green eyes flash with each lightning strike as she fumbles for her keys, her practical meteorologist brain probably calculating how many feet we are from being human lightning rods. I've never seen anything sexier than Harmony Fucking Baker leading me through a storm.

"This way!" she shouts over a thunderclap that rattles my bones.

We'd only meant to grab coffee at Caffeine Beach before heading back to my place, but Mother Nature had other plans. The sky darkened faster than Asher's mood when someone touches hisguitar, and now we're caught in what Harmony would call a "severe thunderstorm event" and what I call a "we're-gonna-drown-in-the-parking-lot situation."

"Got it!" She clicks her key fob, and her Subaru's lights flash like a beacon.

We crash into her car, slamming the doors against the howling wind. Water streams down our faces, our clothes plastered to our skin. Harmony's auburn curls have escaped her usual practical ponytail, wild tendrils framing her face. She pushes her hair back, breathing hard, droplets sliding down her neck and disappearing beneath her soaked blouse.

"Well," she says, her voice still clipped with adrenaline, "that escalated quickly."

"You didn't see this coming, Miss Meteorologist?" I tease, wiping rain from my eyes.

"Isolated cell development." She shakes her head, sending water droplets flying. "Unpredictable, just like you, Miles."

The car windows fog almost instantly from our body heat and breath. Outside, the world has turned into sheets of water, the parking lot barely visible. The drumming on the roof is deafening.

"We're soaked," she says, looking down at herself. Her white blouse has gone completely transparent, clinging to the simple black bra underneath. My mouth goes dry despite the humidity.

"We should–" I start.

"Take our clothes off," she finishes, so matter-of-factly I almost laugh. "Before we catch cold."

My eyebrows shoot up. "Is that your professional weather advice?"

"Actually, yes." She meets my eyes, a challenge there. "Body temperature regulation is serious business, Dakota."

The way she says my name, all proper and scientific, sends heat straight to my groin. I've been with plenty of women – hell, that's basically my brand in the league – but something about Harmony Baker makes me feel like a teenager again, excited and nervous all at once.

"Back seat?" I suggest, nodding to the cramped front of her practical car.

She nods, and we awkwardly maneuver ourselves over the console. Her ass brushes against my face, and I resist the urge to bite it. Barely.

In the back seat, we face each other, breathing hard. Rain hammers the roof. Lightning flashes, illuminating her face in stop-motion bursts. Her fingers reach for the buttons of her blouse.

"Let me," I say, my voice rougher than I intend.

Her hands drop, and she watches me, those green eyes steady even as her chest rises and falls rapidly. I work each button slowly, revealing inch after inch of skin. When I push the fabric from her shoulders, she shivers.

"Cold?" I ask.

"Not exactly."

I cup her face, my thumb tracing her bottom lip. "I should warn you. I'm very serious about preventing hypothermia."

A smile plays at her lips. "I'm counting on your expertise."

My shirt comes off next, peeled away like a second skin. Her hands are on me immediately, those scientific fingers mapping the contours of my chest, my abs, my shoulders. I've been admired by women before – occupational hazard of being a professional athlete – but Harmony touches me like she's cataloging every muscle, every scar, memorizing me.

"Your turn," I murmur, reaching behind her to unhook her bra.

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