Page 4 of Unwrap Me After Dark
I want to put him out of his misery and tell him he’s barking up the wrong tree, but instead, I say, “Coffee. Black. Large.” I pull out my wallet. “And a bag of whatever beans you recommend for drip brew.”
The barista’s smile dims. “Sure thing. Our Ethiopian is pretty popular. Medium roast, hints of blueberry and dark chocolate.”
“Fine.” I hand him a bill. “Keep the change.”
While he prepares my order, I scroll through my phone. A text from Meredith, my stepmom, blinks on my screen.
Hope you and Liam are getting along!
I leave her on read.
Why would she text me, and not her perfect son? Or did she text him, too, wanting to compare our notes? I wonder what he told her. Would he complain? Or would he lie and say we drank hot cocoa, sang Kumbaya, braided each other’s hair, and went to bed holding hands? The mental image makes me chuckle.
The barista slides my coffee across the counter along with a paper bag of beans. “Enjoy your stay.”
“Thanks.” I give him a curt smile and grab my order, heading for the door. The bell chimes my exit, and I feel his eyes on my back as I leave.
The return drive to the cabin is quick. I park beside Liam’s car and sit for a moment, sipping my coffee. It’s good—rich and smooth, with none of the bitterness I was expecting. Small town, decent coffee. Wonders never cease.
As I step out of the car, movement on the lake catches my eye. A figure cuts through the water with powerful, rhythmic strokes. Even from this distance, I recognize Liam’s swimming style—controlled, efficient, almost mechanical.
A pang of guilt stabs at me because of the way I treated him last night. I shouldn’t have snapped like that. But I was in a sour mood, because of our parents, especially his mom, forcing us tospend an entire week here. I was angry at her, but I snapped at him instead. I should probably apologize. We’re grown-ups now, after all, and maybe it’s time to end the childish fights.
I walk down to the shoreline, coffee in hand, watching him. Liam’s always been an excellent swimmer—better than me, though I’d never admit it aloud. Back in high school, he was the team captain, setting records that probably still stand. I preferred football—the controlled violence, the dominance, the competition. Swimming was too solitary, too measured for my taste.
But watching him now, there’s something almost hypnotic about the way his arms slice through the water, the steady kick of his legs, the occasional flash of his back as he turns his head to breathe. His technique is flawless.
I drain the last of my coffee and set the cup on a nearby rock. “Didn’t know you still swam, baby bro,” I call out, pitching my voice to carry across the water.
Liam’s head snaps up, his rhythm broken. He treads water, pushing wet hair from his forehead, his expression morphing from peaceful to annoyed when he spots me. The muscles in his shoulders tense, shiny droplets running down his chest.
“What do you want?” His voice carries across the water, clipped and cold.
I shrug, pulling my t-shirt over my head. “Just admiring the view.” The words have a double meaning that I didn’t intend, but I let them hang in the air between us.
Liam’s eyes narrow. “Go admire it somewhere else.”
“It’s a free lake.” I kick off my shoes, stripping down to the swim trunks I had the foresight to wear under my shorts. The airis cool against my skin, but I don’t let it show. Instead, I stretch, arms over my head, knowing full well that the movement showcases the results of my dedicated training routine.
Liam rolls his eyes and turns away, resuming his swim with deliberate strokes that take him further from shore. Away from me.
I wade into the lake, the cold water a shock against my heated skin. I suppress a shiver, refusing to show weakness. The rocky bottom gives way to smooth sand as I push deeper, then launch myself forward into a dive that carries me several yards through the crystal-clear water.
I surface near Liam, shaking water from my hair like a dog. “Race you to the dock,” I challenge, nodding toward the wooden structure about fifty yards away.
“I’m not interested in your games, Tyler.” Liam’s voice is flat, but I catch the flicker in his eyes—that competitive spark neither of us has ever extinguished.
“Afraid you’ll lose?” I taunt, knowing which buttons to push. It’s always been this way between us—me needling, him resisting, until something snaps.
“Fuck you.” Liam glares at me, treading water.
“On three?” I position myself. “One…two…”
I launch forward before saying “three,” giving myself a head start. Behind me, I hear Liam curse, then the splash as he gives chase.
The water parts around me as I drive myself forward with powerful strokes. Liam is technically better, but I’m stronger, my broader shoulders and greater muscle mass propelling methrough the water with brute force. I sense him closing the gap, his perfect form making up for my cheap start.
We’re neck and neck as we approach the halfway point, our arms slicing through the water in almost perfect synchronization. Neither of us speaks—there’s no breath to waste on words. Just the splash of our bodies, the rhythmic churning of legs, the singular focus on reaching the dock first.
