Page 6 of The Bro Pact
“Yeah,” he mumbles, and I turn my head, staring at his profile illuminated in the sunlight.
His aristocratic nose is strong, with a dusting of freckles across the bridge. Thick black eyelashes rest on his cheekbones, curled enough to make any girl jealous. His jawline is sharp and defined, but his lips are full and pink.
Soft.
Ren suddenly turns his head, and we stare at each other for what feels like an eternity.
“You creepin’ on me?” he asks as a lopsided grin quirks his lips, steely eyes roaming my face quizzically.
I brush him off. “Psh. Ha. Very funny.”
My brows crease with worry as I close my eyes and face the sun once again.
Was I really just checking him out?
We continue to lie in silence, soaking up the first of the summer’s rays.
“Man, I donotwant to swim back,” Warren suddenly announces, and I take a deep breath, dreading the idea of getting back into the chilly water.
But sometimes it’s best to just rip the Band-Aid off.
Without saying a word, I stand up and quietly dive into the lake. I emerge, sucking in a sharp breath of air as my lungs are once again shocked stupid and screaming at me because of the cold.
“Hey! Wait up!” Ren shouts before I hear a splash behind me.
I take off across the lake, alternating between a sidestroke and breaststroke. I was on the swim team freshman and sophomore year of high school before I solely focused on lacrosse.
I got this.
“Winner gets first dibs on the picnic basket!” I shout.
“You cheater!” he cries out, and I’m sure he’s swimming twice as hard now.
He’s desperate for that potato salad.
Soon enough, my toes touch the sandy bottom, and then I’m on dry land once again, panting, with my hands on my knees.
Warren joins me a moment later, chest heaving like his life depends on it.
“You. Fucking. Suck,” he pants, and I just chuckle, walking over to our stuff.
We turn our backs to each other and slip out of our soaked underwear, putting our cycling shorts back on without the wet fabric underneath. “Let’s go eat,” I say, struggling to get my torso into the skintight biking shirt.
We grab our bikes, slip our helmets on, and head for the trail. We ride just as fast on the way back, if not faster, desperate to get to the truck and finally have our picnic.
CHAPTER THREE
WARREN
“Knock, knock,” I say, rapping my knuckles against the door frame of my dad’s office. He’s hunched over his desk, glasses on the tip of his nose, as he analyzes receipts and organizes invoices. He refuses to go paperless. Pops is old school.
I live with my dad and sister in a decent sized apartment above the auto shop he owns. Mom left years ago, when we were just kids, and it’s been the three of us ever since.
Pops grunts so I take that as my cue to come in and plop down on the overstuffed leather armchair in front of him. He sets his reading glasses on his desk and stares at me expectantly. Val and I have the same gray eyes as him, although his are a little more dull and a lot more cynical. “What do you need, son?”
“Oh, it’s nothing serious,” I assure him.
“Spit it out, Warren. No games and no shenanigans. What do you want?”
