At Whit's End (Wells Ranch, #4)(44)

“Bet you can’t do a flip.” I know Denny’s kryptonite. He can’t turn down a challenge.

“Fuck you, I can’t. Hope you’re prepared to lose that bet.” Denny’s already clambering toward where the rope’s hanging limp from the branch of a towering pine tree. When he notices the other guys looking, he says, “Best flip competition. Who’s in?”

“What does the winner get?” Red asks.

“Uh…” Denny scans the shoreline. “Rest of the beer in the cooler. And the loser has to…”

“Grow a mustache!” Kate yells, hands cupped around her mouth, from her lounge chair upstream. She gives her husband a little shove on the shoulder to encourage him to participate, which he reluctantly accepts.

“Hell nah, I’m not growing a mustache.” Red strokes his clean-shaven jaw. “This shit grows in fucking orange. And I don’t need my girlfriend thinking I’m any uglier than she probably already does.”

I give him a thumbs-down and a loud boo. “You only gotta keep it for, like, a few days.”

Five minutes later, we have the rules set up, Red willing to participate, and the women agreeing to judge, when Denny takes a crack at it.

And wouldn’t you know it, he can actually do a fucking flip.

The girls and kids cheer. Who knows what their scoring system really is, but they each hold up nine fingers.

Jackson does some kind of twist in the air that secures him straight tens from his kids, but a two from his own wife. He storms the beach, wrapping his wet body around Kate and tossing her over his shoulder while she laughs hysterically. He submerges both of them in the water, and still she comes back up laughing and swatting water at his face.

Distracted by the commotion in the water, my brain hardly registers three figures emerging from the tree line at the top of the riverbank. Betty barks, and I turn to give her hell when I lose my ability to speak or think in one fell swoop.

Blair. Jonas. Whit.

I swallow hard, reaching blindly for my can of beer—anything to calm my nerves and cool the sudden rise in body temperature. I train my eyes on a set of stacked rocks being lapped by a small current of water.

Wow. Great rocks. Really cool pattern there. Is that quartz?

I stupidly steal a glance in her direction out of the corner of my eye to catch her lifting her dress overhead.

Fuck, she’s taking her clothes off.

How do rocks get so smooth, anyway?

The saliva’s pooling at the back of my throat faster than I can swallow it. And actually, I’m insanely jealous of the way Rob can sit there ogling my girl without a fucking worry in the world. Yet if I so much as take notice of her presence here, I’m sure they’ll be on to me in an instant.

Maybe one glance…if I play it super cool.

I pretend as though I’ve lost track of my dog, scanning real slowly over the riverbank, taking my time to ensure she didn’t run off.

Fuck.

She’s in a black one-piece suit that dips dangerously low in the front.

Okay, I’ve spotted Betty. I give a little nod to myself that says I finally saw what I was looking for, then allow one more gradual scan of the crowd, lingering a bit on Whit. On her long creamy legs, and the curve of her hips, and the sheen covering her breasts, and the way she tilts her face toward the sun.

I’m so in my head, I nearly miss Red calling me over for my turn in the competition. My vision’s hazy, and I wipe sweat from my brow with the back of my hand on the awkward stumble toward him.

Sliding my hands up the rope to just above a knot Denny added for grip, I swing. When the clear blue sky is visible among the tree canopy, I know I’m over the river. Fearless, I let go and give in to the free fall for half a second. My stomach and heart seem to switch positions on my backwards tuck.

Smack.

The near-freezing water slaps my back, knocking the wind from my chest with a sharp, painful implosion that I know I’ll feel for days. Instantly my skin’s stinging from the impact, and I fight to upright myself in the river’s current so I can locate the surface. Then I let myself stay six feet underwater, staring up at the sun’s rays dancing on the surface, until my body instinctively fights to save itself. Though drowning might be preferential to facing Whit, who definitely won’t be interested in dating me after this.

“Yikes, man,” Denny calls the moment my head bobs above the water. “You good?”

“Fuckin’ ouch.” I carefully run the tips of my fingers over the tender spot in the center of my lower back.

There’s a collective wincing on my behalf. The searing sensation under my skin seems to get worse once I drag my ass out of the water. I refuse to make eye contact with Whit, though Jonas is causing a ruckus next to her.

Three points across the board. Even that feels like a pity score.

“Zero out of ten recommend doing whatever the hell that was,” I say, taking a slow, wobbly seat on a rock.

All my limbs work, so I didn’t get too hurt. Pride took a hell of a beating, though.

Oh, yeah. And it looks like I’m growing a damn mustache now. I’m going to look like my dad’s younger doppelg?nger.

“Honestly, man.” Denny slaps a hand on my shoulder and passes me a beer. “I think I might grow one with you for the hell of it. Last time Blair and I dated, I couldn’t grow more than some patchy scruff on my chin. Maybe she’ll be into it.”