Page 43 of Just Friends

I snort, the sound barely audible over the rain pounding overhead.

“Is there a hose?” Alex asks, his dark eyes darting across the yard.

I sit up straighter, shutting off the engine. “Yes. Good idea.”

“Perfect.”

The passenger door squeals on its hinges as Alex props it open. When we meet in front of the truck, he eyes me in the pale light of the crescent moon. “Do you think you’re clean enough to go inside and get some clothes for me? I don’t want to drip water all the way down the hall.”

I give him a little salute and lead him around the side of the house on tiptoes. I don’t knowwhythis feels clandestine, like the times I snuck out to visit my high school boyfriends in the dead of night for somefishing, but it does, and I treat this like I’m a world-class spy on a mission to infiltrate the government.

“Quit acting like you’re James Bond,” Alex says from behind me, loud enough to wake the dead.

Spinning around, I hiss, “Be quiet. You’re going to blow my cover!” His laughter rings out over the sounds of the rain and the crickets and the frogs.

With the faint moonlight and glittering stars as my guide, I fumble through the dark until I locate the hose, and it sputters to life beneath my fingertips, gurgling before icy water sprays over my feet, which are caked in mud.

I yelp, and when Alex stifles a chuckle, I spray him directly in the chest.

His breath whooshes out between his teeth. “I think my balls just took up permanent residence inside my body.”

My palm connects with his muscled shoulder, shoving. “Oh my gosh, I don’t need to hear about yourballs.”

His grin is a flash of white, all bright teeth and wicked intent. “You haven’t heard anything yet,” he says, and I press my thumb over the mouth of the hose so the spray hits him with more force.

The laugh that rumbles from his chest is music, a movie score playing through my head, as I dash into the house and down the hall, avoiding the creaky floorboards so I don’t wake my parents. Mom would be all too thrilled with this turn of events and would most likely bring up baby names around the breakfast table tomorrow morning.

Somehow, my childhood bedroom no longer smells like apples, like the thick wax candles Mom makes in her shop that are always burning around the house and the farmhouse. No, it smells like Alex. Starch and citrus, like clothes left on the line to air dry in the summertime. The scent is so thoroughly caked into the walls and linens that I don’t think it will ever smell like apples in here again.

I rifle through Alex’s bag, my fingers sliding against a soft, worn shirt and cotton shorts. I know for a fact he will peel this shirt off once the lights are out and he thinks I’m not looking, then slip between the cold bed sheets in nothing but these shorts, but I can’t bring myself to leave the shirt. Topless Alex feels dangerous, and I don’t think I’m ready or brave enough to consider why.

I fumble through the dark once more, following the sounds of the hose, Alex’s clothes gripped in the fist I’m not sliding against the ancient wooden siding. The gurgling of the hose becomes louder and louder until I—

Smack into something hard. And wet. And naked.

Alex’s hands are on my shoulders, steadying me, but all I can think about is the feeling of skin against skin, the expanse of my stomach exposed from my wet denim shorts sliding down my hips connecting with the light dusting of hair on his own. His palms on the curves of my shoulders and my empty one pressed against his chest. His—

Alex pushes me back firmly, the space between us filling with darkness.

“You’renaked,” I sputter. They’re the only words running on a loop in my brain. Alex is in front of me. Naked. And I don’t know why, but I’m wishing for the earth to defy gravity and spin a little faster so I could enjoy the view under the champagne and periwinkle shades of sunrise.

The thought makes a hot blush break out across my chest and climb up my neck until it’s suffusing my cheeks. Maybe the darkness isn’t so bad. Light would give me away, betray whatever confusing feelings are swirling through my brain.

“Well, yes. I did ask you to bring my clothes,” Alex says, his voice sounding tight, and in the sliver of moonlight, I can see him covering himself. Suddenly I’m a demure Victorian maiden, and the sight ofall that skinis making me in desperate need of some smelling salts.

“I still didn’t realize you’d benaked, Alexander,” I say, resorting to his full name in my flustered state.

“Stop sayingnakedlike that.”

“Like what?” I ask, genuinely curious. To my ears, I’m saying it with reverence, the way you would talk about gelato or Princess Diana.

“Like you just drank one of those nasty juice shots you get from the farmers’ market.”

Iwishlooking at Alex right now was as unpleasant as the cayenne and turmeric shot I have to hold my nose while downing. It would make things a lot simpler.

“I’mnotsaying it like that,” I protest.

“Then how are you saying it?” Alex asks. His voice is rough, like sandpaper against untreated wood or harsh stubble against delicate skin.

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