Page 31 of Without a Trace
I stepped past them barefoot, pulse loud in my throat, and followed the others out the door. My body buzzed with the wine, the heat, and the pressure of too many feelings crammed into too small a space. I felt dangerous.
Not dangerous in a bad way.
Dangerous in the I might kiss someone and not regret it way.
Scarlett
The water was hot, the air cool, and my head was just fuzzy enough for everything to feel dreamlike. Steam curled into the night like a ghost. Someone had lit the string lights above us, and they flickered gold across the patio.
Sloane sat on the edge, feet dipped in, sipping a hard seltzer.
I pulled off the oversized sweatshirt I’d thrown over my bikini and tossed it onto a chair, pretending I didn’t notice Alden and Trace glance over at the same time.
Kane tossed me a cup. “The birthday girl looks good.”
“Eat your heart out,” I said, stepping into the tub, sinking with a dramatic sigh. “God, I feel like I’ve aged ten years in one day.”
“You look twenty,” Lena said, grinning. “Tops.”
“Bless you,” I said, raising my cup in a toast.
The wine had loosened my tongue hours ago, but the heat from the tub made it worse—or better, depending on who you asked. My legs brushed Alden’s under the water, and I didn’t move.
Trace sat just opposite of me. His gaze cut sharp, his fingers flexed slightly on the rim of the tub—like he was gripping the edge of restraint.
“So,” Kane said, sloshing water over the side as he shifted. “Who’s getting in trouble tonight?”
“I feel like Scarlett’s already halfway there,” Sloane muttered.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” I smiled sweetly and leaned back, letting the water rise to my collarbone.
I felt Trace watching me.
Felt Alden’s leg press against mine—and stay. Like maybe he needed the contact just to breathe.
It was warm and charged and stupid and perfect.
We sat there laughing and drinking, Rhett finally joining us. Carrying a bottle of something probably illegal and definitely strong. We passed the bottle back and forth, laughing at nothing. Kane made up rules for a drinking game that made no sense. Rhett kept losing, probably on purpose. Just to see how loud he could make us laugh. For a while, it felt good. Easy. Like the night had stretched open for us and forgot to bring the weight we were all carrying.
Eventually, the conversations began to slow, the bottle was half-empty. The moon slid higher. One by one they peeled off—Lena got up first, sleepy and wine-dazed. Kane claiming he couldn’t feel his fingers, Rhett needing food. Towels were tossed, jokes were made, doors creaked open.
Sloane lingered, looking between me and the boys like she knew exactly what was brewing.
“You good?” she asked, voice low.
“Never better,” I said, teeth flashing.
She shook her head but didn’t argue. “Don’t drown.”
The door slid shut behind her, bringing with it a quiet.
Just the three of us.
The steam curled higher.
The silence grew heavy.
I smiled. Wicked. Loose. Buzzing.
