Page 176 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
I grab the bag with our supplies and climb out. “You coming?”
“Coming where?”
“For a swim.”
Her nose wrinkles. “No. We have to get this stuff back to the tent or the mayor will have our heads.”
I toss my Stetson on the dash. “My brothers won’t have that mess cleaned up yet, and we’ll only get roped into helping. That shower you’re dying to take won’t happen until we have the whole tent ready for tomorrow.”
She sucks in her bottom lip because she knows I’m right.
“I got a couple of shirts and pants in here. Plus a blanket we can use as a towel.” I shake the bag. “Let’s go rinse off real quick.”
“I don’t have a bathing suit.”
“Neither do I, but my briefs are pretty close to swim shorts.”
I slam the door and head down, hoping she follows.
30: NIGHT-TIME BANDITS
JADE
––––––––
HART STRUTS TOWARD the pond, slow and steady, kicking off his boots as he walks.
The sun melts in the distance, streaking the sky in peach and pink.
He stops at the edge of the pond.
What the hell is he thinking?
Bruised, bloody, planning to get half-naked, in pond water? Not peroxide, not bandages. A festering, germy swamp masquerading as a solution.
Brilliant.
Just brilliant.
Because he’s doing it for you.
I’m too emotionally drained even to consider the idea. He’s hot and cold. Thoughtful rather than an asshole.
I fold my arms tighter. I’m not getting out.
He can swim his little heart out and land in the doctor’s office with infections.
I don’t care.
I’m done caring.
My clothes squish and crack at the same time, half wet, half dried.
I’m disgusting.
His hand reaches for the back of his neck, fingers curling around the collar of his shirt.
Don’t do it.
