Page 60 of From the Wreckage
My mind wanders to the younger version of her, perched beside her dad in oversized sunglasses, chin tilted stubbornly as she held her fishing pole. The image guts me. She’s been his whole world. And here I am, stealing glances at her like she’s mine.
Grayson launches into a story about the time she caught her first bass, animated and laughing, and she buries her face in her hands. “Oh my God, stop,” she mutters through her fingers.
“Hey, it was a big deal!” he insists, eyes bright. “She screamed so loud, half the lake thought I’d hooked her by accident. Whole damn place heard it.”
Her laughter spills out despite herself, soft and melodic, and I have to grip the wheel tighter. Because I want that sound in my cabin. In my bed. In mylife.
She peeks at me, quick and shy, like she’s checking if I’m laughing, too. Our eyes catch for a half-second too long, and it’s enough to make my chest seize.
“Everett,” Grayson says, dragging me back before I can lose myself in her. “You fish much?”
“Some,” I answer, clearing my throat. “Not lately.”
“Well, we’ll fix that. Once you get this boat on the water, we’ll make a day of it. Me, you, and Bri out there. Right, Bri?”
She fidgets with the hem of her shorts, her cheeks still pink. “Yeah, sure.”
The air is thick with her embarrassment, his cheer, and my guilt. I shouldn’t be here, sitting between a father and daughter who trust me. Who thinks I’m something I’m not.
But when her thigh presses against mine again—just a fraction too long—I know I can’t walk away either.
CHAPTER 41
Brielle
Dad’s been grinninglike it’s Christmas morning since Everett picked us up, and it hasn’t dimmed once. He’s practically bouncing in his seat, talking about fishing trips, sunrise, and coffee on the lake.
Meanwhile, I’m stuck in the middle—literally. Wedged between them on the bench seat of Everett’s truck, my thigh brushes Everett’s every time we hit a bump in the road. The warmth of him seeps through my skin, and I swear he must feel my pulse hammering.
I keep sneaking little glances at him while Dad happily jabbers away, oblivious to the heat between Everett and me. Everett’s hands grip the wheel, his veins standing up along his forearms, dark sunglasses hiding his eyes.
But I know he feels the tension simmering between us. The way our legs keep touching just enough to make my stomach flip.
Dad launches into the story about the first fish I ever caught, and I bury my face in my hands, groaning. “Oh my God, stop.”
Everett smirks, the kind of smile so faint no one else would notice. My breath hitches as I peek through my fingers, catching the curve of his lips before he hides it.
The rest of the drive is torture. I pretend I’m embarrassed by Dad when really, I’m hyperaware of Everett’s every breath beside me. Every time I shift in the seat, I brush Everett’s leg or arm. I can’t glance out the window without noticing his reflection in the glass.
By the time we pull into the marina lot, my nerves are shredded. Dad’s already pointing toward the rows of shiny boats, still chattering about how we’ll spend “entire Saturdays on the water” before musing that he should get another boat.
I climb out of the truck quickly, needing to put distance between us. The warm air smells like lake water and fuel, gulls crying overhead. When Everett comes around the front of the truck, his eyes catch mine for a fraction of a second. Heat flashes through me, quick and sharp.
He looks away first, eyes moving toward the salesman waiting by the dock. His hand brushes the small of my back before he heads in the direction of the salesman.
I stand there, frozen, trying to convince myself the touch was accidental, even though part of me knows it wasn’t. Heat rushes through me so fast I almost stumble.
Dad doesn’t notice. He’s on Everett’s heels, shaking hands with the salesman the second Everett pulls his hand back. He says something to the guy that causes excitement to light up both their faces. My dad probably told him he wants a boat, too.
“Let’s go take a look, Bri,” Dad calls over his shoulder.
I trail after them onto the dock, the boards creaking beneath my sandals. The salesman climbs into the boat to start explaining controls and features. Dad follows, asking a dozen questions, his voice carrying.
Everett steps aside to let me climb down after them, his hand steadying my elbow even though I don’t need help. It lingers a second too long.
When Dad is distracted by the wheel, talking to the salesman about horsepower, I lean closer under the guise of looking at the dash. My shoulder presses against Everett’s, my lips near his ear. “You’re torturing me,” I whisper.
His jaw flexes, the muscle ticking as his gaze stays straight ahead. “Angel, you have no idea.”
