Page 56 of The Problem with Perfect

Connor crosses his arms. “Or they’re just old and broken down and useless.”

Rusty grins. “You can usually look at something older and tell if it’s broken down by the way it’s been maintained. That house looks to be in incredible shape.” He pauses. “And you should see the size of the kitchen. It’s massive.”

I glance between the two guys, trying to understand what’s happening, because I’m getting the feeling they’re talking about something else entirely.

“Connor, stop being weird,” Stace says, her eye roll heavily implied by the tone of her voice.

That seems to snap them out of it. Rusty tugs a few beers out of the cooler and pops off the tops before passing them around to everyone. Connor messes with the stereo, turning on some classic rock, and Stace lays out a towel on the front bow and strips down to her bikini, a tiny neon thing that shows off a lot of ass. She declares that she’s gonna get a little tan before stretching out on her back.

“Well, I’m ready to get in the water,” I say, turning to Rusty. “Wanna join me?”

He grins and takes off his sunglasses, his bright, beautiful eyes sparkling as he looks at me. “Absolutely.”

Suddenly, I feel a bit self-conscious about getting down to just my bathing suit, and I go to the back end of the boat and look out to the water as I pull off my top and chuck it on the seat then kick off my shorts. I flick my head over and bunch my hair into a knot then loop a rubber band from my wrist around it so the long, thick strands stay out of my face.

“Alright, which end are we jumping off of?” I ask, turning around.

But when I look at Rusty, he looks angry. It’s only brief, barely there and gone in a flash, before he takes my hand in his and leads me up to the front of the boat, past Connor who is lighting a cigar where he sits in the captain’s chair, edging by Stace where she’s tanning.

“Ready?”

I grin, unable to hold back my smile. “Yeah.”

“One, two, three, jump!” he says, and I squeal as we go feet first into the water, plunging into the cool lake, my body chilling instantly.

When I break through the surface, I’m laughing, and so is Rusty. God, laughter looks good on him.

Kicking my feet to stay afloat, I begin swimming toward the rear of the boat, wanting quick access to a ladder out of the water. My teeth are already chattering even though I’ve only been in for two seconds.

“I always forget how cold it is, no matter how long I live here,” I say as I brace my hands on the step at the back, near the motor.

“If you’re cold, I can warm you up,” Rusty tells me, a mischievous grin on his face as he drifts in my direction, having followed me around from the other end of the boat.

I assume he’s joking, so I laugh, but then he tugs me toward him, his arms wrapping around me as we float together, the warmth of his body soothing compared to the not-quite-frigid temps of the lake.

“How are you already an ice cube?” he asks me, rubbing up and down on my skin under the water in a way that feels both caring and sensual in the same movement.

“I just get cold very easily,” I answer, my teeth continuing to chatter. “It’s genetic—my mom and Briar are the same way—but I love being in the lake, so I usually just suck it up.”

Rusty chuckles and shakes his head. “I’m always a furnace,” he says. “I wear nothing to bed, even during the winter, because I’m constantly a million degrees.”

I’m sure he’s just saying it conversationally—I mean, what other reason could there possibly be to tell me he sleeps naked?—but my mind still tries to conjure up a vision of Rusty, nude and reclined on his bed, his long, strong frame and contoured muscles laid out in repose.

“Abby’s like you, though,” he continues. “Always cold, so we were constantly fighting over the thermostat. I’d wake up sweating because she’d snuck down the hall and changed it to 75 in the middle of the night.”

I make a face. “Okay, that I can’t get behind. I am a firm 68 degrees at night kind of girl. I just pile up blankets and wear a good pair of fuzzy socks.”

His lips tilt up. “You seem like a fuzzy sock kind of girl.”

“And what does a fuzzy sock kind of girl seem like?” I ask as Rusty continues to rub my arms and shoulders to warm me up.

He shrugs under the water. “Like you.”

I snort. “Well, thanks. That’s a lot of help.”

“I just mean, you seem like someone who likes to…I don’t know, snuggle up with a good book, you know? And those people tend to like fuzzy socks and comfy blankets and little reading nooks. And tea, they always like tea.”

I giggle. “Okay, well show me the type of person whodoesn’tlike those things, because all of that sounds absolutely divine.”

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