Page 56 of I Blame the Alcohol

She grins and takes my hand, pulling me down to sit beside her. Her bare legs break the surface with a splash, sending ripples flowing in every direction. I roll up my jeans and join her, hissing out a breath when my feet hit the surface.

“It’s freezing.”

“You’ll get used to it.”

Stella shoots me a smile and we fall silent. My hand resting on the ground inches closer towards hers, our fingers naturally intertwining when they make contact.

I study her side profile as she stares across the pool. Stella’s face is delicate in the way the rest of her body isn’t, her pixie-like features untouched by the hours dedicated to the gym. But just like her brother, I can see shadows of sleepless nights darkening the under bags of Stella’s eyes.

“Where did you learn to two-step?” The question jolts me out of my stare.

“My mom taught me. Said every good country boy should know how.”

Stella squeezes my hand teasingly, “I didn’t know country boys hate wearing cowboy hats.”

“Oh, I am far from a cowboy. Mom finally realized that when I got my first mohawk.”

Stella gasps, “You remember getting your first mohawk? Oh, let me guess what age.” She shifts to look at me, making that damn shirt ride up another inch.

One more and that black lace will be on full display.

I clear my throat, “It’s probably older than you’re thinking.”

She hums, closing her eyes as if the answer is just out of sight.

“Eleven. No, wait. Fifteen.”

I open my mouth but Stella waves for me to be quiet.

“I change my mind. It’s closer to nine.”

I wait patiently, letting her run through every number possible. Finally, Stella exhales, puffing a stray strand from her eyes and giving me a nod.

“I’ve got it. Thirteen.”

“You sure?”

She hesitates before nodding, “I’m sure.”

I lean closer, carefully watching her expression as I brush my lips past her cheek to whisper softly in her ear.

“Eighteen.”

Stella shivers at my proximity, goosebumps raising along her bare flesh. I’m about to nip the tender skin below her earlobe when she pushes me away with a scowl.

“You cheated.”

My jaw drops, “How did I cheat?”

She huffs, crossing her arms, “You made it sound like it happened when you were young.”

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

I mirror her defensive stance, torn between wanting to kiss her until she stops arguing and throwing her in the pool.

“You were the one that wanted to guess.”

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