Page 239 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
“I’m so sorry.” Laughter bubbles out of me.
“I don’t think you are.” His gaze shifts, something playful flickering just beneath the surface with a kind of quiet dare in his eyes.
Then he lunges for the sprayer.
39: AIR TAGGED
HART
THE SECOND THE spray hits me, I know two things:
One: She didn’t mean to.
Two: I am one hundred percent not letting her get away with it.
She moves at the same time, straight for the nozzle.
Our hands collide on the grip.
“Let go.” I tighten my fingers.
“You let go.” Quick. Clipped. Amused.
Her tone sends a ripple of heat through me.
“Not a chance.”
I tug.
She pulls back. “Don’t you even think about it.”
The hose twists in our grip, spraying over our arms, down my chest, soaking the front of her shirt.
She shrieks.
“You’re getting everything wet!” She wrestles for the upper hand.
“Oh, now you care?”
Her hands are on mine, both of us fighting for control, slipping, laughing, half-falling into each other. The sprayer jerks sideways and mists her face.
She gasps and yelps simultaneously, then lunges. We dodge and weave, spraying each other with bursts.
Our clothes drip, drenched.
Our laughter echoes off the walls.
It’s reckless and carefree, like we’re young again, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of us.
“You jerk! That’s cold!” She grabs the end of the hose with both hands, trying to wrench it free.
Water sprays sideways, soaking both our legs.
“Let go and I’ll be gentle,” I promise.
She yanks the hose down, dousing us both from the waist up.
“Gentle my ass.” She pushes forward, and her shoulder knocks me off balance.
