Page 39 of Only in Your Dreams

I don’t even need to look at him to know he knows I’m lying.

That Connor’s dislike of Oakwood and its slow pace was a convenient excuse to keep my visits to Thanksgiving and Christmas, but my main gripe with Oakwood Bay is that it’s nearly impossible to avoid anyone, especially when they run in your circle of friends.

My main gripe sits in front of me now, in this blown-up canoe, fingering something underneath the sleeve of his shirt without looking away from me.

Yeah, this sunset canoe ride was definitely a mistake.

“Maybe we should turn back. Before it gets too dark.”

“I thought we were turning a corner,” Zac says abruptly. “After almost getting mauled by a wild animal last night.”

What he really means is the way I let him cradle me against his body as I cried terrified tears. The way I coaxed him into conversation, long enough to feel the panicked pace of his heart slow under my palm.

I reach for the oars at the bottom of the boat. “I don’t hate you, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

“Yet you want nothing to do with me.”

“Look, we ended our friendship—or whatever it was—on bad terms.” I stare at the shoreline. “We’ve both managed life just fine without each other, and just because I’m home doesn’t mean we have to… I don’t know. Revive things? I don’t plan on being back in town for long, anyway.”

Zac frowns. “What do you mean, you’re not in town for long?”

I slot my hands between my thighs. “I’m moving back as soon as I can afford to on my own.”

His gaze drifts at a point over my head. “So, how long? Until you leave?”

“Why does it matter?”

“How long, Clover?”

I finger the end of my ponytail, pick at my shorts. Shove the box I put him in all the way at the back of my closet, where it belongs. “Hopefully only a month or two.”

“A couple months,” Zac mutters absently, still staring off at the sky like he’s working something out in his head. “Okay. I can work with that.”

I shoot him a funny look. “I hope you don’t think I was inviting you to come with me.”

“No,” he says with breath, like he’s steeling himself for something. “Not yet, anyway.”

Okay, the man has clearly lost it.

“Now we’re definitely turning back. You’re looking a little crazed.”

He takes an oar and feeds it over the edge of the canoe. “I’m not crazed. I want you to forgive me. I want us to be good again. I’ll get you to trust me if it’s the last thing I do. You’ll see.”

All the confidence in the world, this one.

Completely nonchalant in the face of his own grandiose declaration, Zac holds out his hand, presumably so that I can pass him the other oar. And then we realize his mistake. Namely, letting go of the oar that’s now slipping the final inches off the side of the canoe.

I dart forward to catch it just as Zac does the same. And this really must be a sappy romance novel come to life, because we end up missing the paddle completely and grabbing each other’s hand instead.

The paddle splashes into the water, but I’m now badly fixated on the way Zac’s hand is holding mine. His skin is warm and soft and his hand so big and—

“Oops,” I say, and the laugh that follows is fake and shrill as hell.

I jerk away and it happens fast. The hand I have braced on the soft edge of the canoe slips, my bad ankle buckles. My squeal pierces the peaceful lake, and a bird bursts out of a tree on shore just as I splash face-first into the water.

The lake is cold, cooled down by this weekend’s storm, and I surface with a massive shiver to find Zac busting a lung in laughter.

Ass.

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