Page 129 of The Long Way Home
Wes replies immediately. “Sweet! I call first ride!”
When we finally board the boat, someone whistles.
“This thing is sick.” Connor drops his bag on one of the padded benches.
It has an upper deck with a ladder and a bright blue slide that curves down into the water. There are built-in speakers, drink holders everywhere and enough room for all eight of us without feeling crammed.
“Dibs on the slide,” Lexi says, already climbing up the ladder to check it out.
“Says the girl who didn’t want to go tubing,” Slone tosses back.
“We’ll park out in the middle of the lake, drop the anchor and just float,” Anderson confirms, taking the wheel. “Sound good? And Wes, you can just meet us at the boat once you’re done with your ride.”
Everyone agrees, and I take a seat at the back, letting the wind whip across my face as we cut across the lake. The engine hums beneath us, while white spray arcs off the hull and lands in sharp, cold bursts.
Anderson idles the boat in the middle of a wide cove. The water is mirror-smooth, catching sunlight in shards that dance across the surface. The hills rise steep and tree-covered around us, enclosing the cove like a secret kept just for those who arrive by water.
A few minutes pass in easy quiet before Wes parks the Jet Ski, looping the rope around the cleat with practiced ease.
“Alright,” Slone says, popping open a seltzer. “Who’s getting in the water?”
“Me,” Wes says, already kicking off his flip-flops and yanking off his shirt. “But I gotta grab a drink.”
Connor hands out cans of whatever people have thrown into the cooler: seltzers, beer, even a bottle of rosé that Margo somehow convinced Anderson to pack. Everyone starts stripping off their lake layers. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Rachel untying her cover-up and sliding it off.
I freeze. It’s stupid, I know that. I’ve seen Rachel a hundred times before in a swimsuit, butJesus.I’m going to have to wait ten minutes before I can move again.
Her bikini is simple. Red. Nothing flashy, nothing designed to demand attention—but somehow that makes it worse. It clings to her in all the right places, straps dipping over sun-warmed shoulders, the fabric catching light in a way that makes my head spin. Her legs go on forever, her stomach taut and smooth, her hips curved in a way that makes it impossible to look anywhere else.
But what wrecks me isn’t the sight itself. It is knowing what’s underneath. What I’ve already seen. What I’ve already touched. It makes pretending I don’t want her feel damn near impossible.
I haven’t even had a sip of alcohol yet, and I feel drunk. I try to look away, but I can’t convince myself to let go of the sight. The only thing that breaks me out of it is Slone interrupting.
“You good?” Slone teases.
I clear my throat. “Yeah. Just hot out.”
She smirks. “Right.”
Rachel steps to the edge of the boat, testing the water with a toe. “Shit. That’s cold.”
“You know you do that every time.”
She glances back, lips quirking. “I do not.”
“You do,” I say calmly. “You never just jump. You need a second to feel it first.”
“Okay, fine,” she says, conceding. “Then jump with me.” She holds out her hand.
I place my hand in hers. “You know I’m always looking for an excuse to touch you.”
The water hits like a shock to the system, cold enough to knock the breath out of my chest, but it only takes a second before it feels incredible. The heat melts off me. I come up gasping and laughing, and Rachel is already pushing wet hair out of her face, grinning.
I splash toward her, just a little, and she doesn’t even flinch, only smirks.
“Oh, so we’re reverting to being childish,” she says, flicking water back at me.
“I couldn’t help myself,” I counter. “Something about this place.”
