Page 19 of The Pucking Date
She sighs dramatically, then rises like a queen being summoned for battle—long legs, sun-warmed skin, andnot a single attemptto reach for a cover-up. Not even a sarong. Just that red strap of fabric and a flick of her hair, trying to kill me dead on the sand.
Jesus Christ.
“She’s really not gonna throw something on?” I rumble, unable to stop watching her stride across the beach toward Liam.
Dmitri, standing beside me, claps a heavy hand on my shoulder. “This is your hell, my friend. We’re just here for the show.”
“Focus, Romeo,” Nate chimes in. “Try not to serve the ball into your own face.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I groan, shaking them off. “If you guys are trying to chirp me, at least be creative about it.”
Dmitri glances around, counting heads. “Still short one,” he mutters, then turns toward the shoreline.
“Melissa!” he calls, waving a hand.
She’s sitting beneath a striped umbrella a few feet away, legs curled under her, sunglasses perched on her head, watching the kids dig sand trenches.
She looks up, surprised. Dmitri pantomimes bumping a volleyball. “We need one more!”
Melissa turns to her husband laid out on a towel with apaperback, and points to the kids. “Can you watch them for a bit?”
He nods, waving her off.
She beams, jumps up, and jogs toward the net, brushing sand off her legs. “Okay, but I haven’t played since college,” she says breathlessly.
“Perfect.” Dmitri grins. “We’re all equally mediocre then.”
Laughing, she takes her place on the sand, glowing just a little. Liam finishes splitting the teams—him, Wesley, me, Nate, Sophie, and Jessica on one side. Adam, Jenna, Erin, Dmitri, Kieran, and Melissa on the other. We scatter to our positions. I claim the center. Jessica ends up left side.
Right next to me.
She’s stretching now. Hands above her head, back arching, that weapon she’s wearing doingnothingto protect me from the full, glorious view. The competitive fire in her eyes has officially replaced the calm from earlier. Now she’s in it to win.
The first few volleys are smooth, everyone laughing, shit-talking, trying way too hard for a game that means nothing. Sophie’s surprisingly good. Dmitri plays with Stanley Cup intensity. Jessica moves with the sharp focus of someone chasing a point.
She’s relentless, diving for impossible saves, calling plays, ponytail whipping as she cuts across the sand. Every jump sends heat straight through me. I try to look away. Fail every time. My gaze keeps dragging back to her legs, the curve of her waist, the sunlit flush blooming across her chest and shoulders.
I’m fucked.
“Jesus, you’re dying out here,” Nate mutters after a point. “You gonna survive?”
“She’s just playing volleyball,” I lie.
“She’s playing volleyball inthatbikini,” Liam adds, grinning. “Which is less volleyball and more slow-motion destruction.”
“Shut up,” I hiss under my breath. “Let me suffer in peace.”
Jessica shoots me a glance. A raised brow. Because she knows.
Of course she does.
The next serve flies. I move to intercept, but so does Jessica. She swerves at the last second, gives me the point, but not before our arms collide. Fire races through me, instant and electric.
Resetting, she glances over. A flicker sparks in her eyes—heat, challenge, a collision of memory and dare that hits straight in the chest.
Game point.
Liam calls a huddle. “Novak, left. O’Reilly, center. Don’t kill each other. Sophie up front. Cain, block the net like your life depends on it.”
