Page 44 of Catch and Release Groom

Reality crept in, replacing the oxygen in her lungs with a sense of urgency.

No room for second-guessing.Imogen straightened and turned to fully face him, reminding herself she could seize moments and make brash decisions and do whatever she wanted to do while she was on vacation.

Just…

Let…

Go.

At long last, Imogen gave herself permission to surrender to his pull, winding her arms around his waist and licking her lips in anticipation.

Easton was already dipping his head, readily meeting her halfway. “Tell me the rush was worth it,” he said, his pupils dilating.

Out of the corner of her eye, Imogen spotted Gator racing through the water, a couple minutes late to the party and as happy as a pig in mud.

Was she going to stop, or—?

Imogen sprang out of the dog’s path a fraction of a fraction of a second before the crash.

Inadvertently leaving a gobsmacked Easton to absorb the full impact.

Chapter Eighteen

Down they both went, the guy and the dog, with a giant splash and flurry of human and canine limbs.

All Imogen could do was watch, mouth agape, also allowing herself the tiniest pinch of satisfaction at seeing the illustrious Easton Reeves discombobulated.

She brought up her arms on instinct, blocking her face as a fine mist rained over her, and for a glittery second or two, time played out in slow motion.

Gator emerged first, paddling sodden legs in the style she and the entire canine species were known for—doggy.

A moment later, Easton breached the river’s surface, pushing to his feet and raking fingers through drenched locks. Water ran trails over his torso, highlighting his drool-worthy features with divine precision. Pecs, abs, and a trail of dark hair that led down, down,down…

To where it disappeared into the waistband of his plastered-on jeans.

Imogen sank her teeth into her lower lip and looked her fill—well, she’d never be at capacity, given the specimen. Was this what Michelangelo felt like when he stood in front of his finished statue of David?

It made her want to get her hands on clay.

Her hands onhim.

That way she could commit the feel to memory. When it came to this particular subject, she didn’t want to miss a detail. For art’s sake.

He cleared his throat, arrogance bleeding into his voice. “Eyes are up here.”

“I’ll get there eventually,” she fired back without missing a beat. “Right now, I’m too preoccupied with the fact that you could win a wet T-shirt contest.”

“I’m not sure it’s fair to declare me the winner if I don’t have competition.” Mischief flared in his amber depths, and he advanced a step, obviously plotting a dunk in the water.

“No-no-no,” she said, backpedaling and cursing her sandals’ flimsy, slippery soles.“Easton Reeves, don’t you dar—”

“That’s right. Say my name, baby.”

Everything within her went perfectly still at the growly way he’d called her “baby.”

It sounded so different from the over-the-top pet names they’d used to goad and annoy.

It was intimate. Automatic. Un-fucking-fair.

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