Love Song(10)

I spin to run, but my heel catches on a plank, and suddenly the dock shifts beneath my feet. I lose my balance and topple over.

For some baffling reason, the serial killer tries to steady me.

The next thing I know, we’re both falling headfirst into the lake.





Chapter 3


WYATT





I WOKE UP FROM A beautiful sleep, and now I’m drowning.

Literally.

Cold water closes over my head. A frigid, glacial kind of cold that bites through your clothes and cuts down to the bone. My breath escapes in a flurry of bubbles as my body seizes against the shock. The freezing water of Lake Tahoe is barely swimmable in May during the day. At night, it feels like my lungs have closed up. Jesus. I actually can’t breathe.

Survival instincts kick in as I find myself completely submerged. My hoodie and sweatpants are having the opposite effect—rather than serving as a heat source, they’re pulling me deeper into the lake. While little needles stab into any inch of skin that’s exposed, I fight the dizzying disorientation and kick up with my bare feet. A few seconds later, I break the surface, gasping. The air I suck into my lungs feels even colder than the water, but at least I’m breathing again.

I hear someone else gasping beside me and look over to find the criminal who did this to me. This chick brazenly walked into my house, cracked open a beer, and meandered down here to admire the lake like she’s on fucking vacation. I don’t know who she is, but— “Wyatt?”

I falter at the sound of my name escaping her lips. It takes a second to recognize her.

“Blake?” I spit out a mouthful of lake water. “What the hell are you doing here?”

We’re both treading water, arms moving in circles and legs kicking beneath the surface.

“Me? What are you doing here? Nobody was supposed to be here!”

She’s got me there. I did leave Nashville and come to Tahoe without telling anyone. In my defense, I pull shit like this all the time. Didn’t realize I needed to send an itinerary to every family friend whenever I get restless.

“Oh my God, I can actually see my breath,” she mutters. “Can we please have this argument on land?”

Without awaiting a response, she starts swimming away. I swim after her, and we’re both dripping wet and shaking uncontrollably by the time we heave ourselves up the ladder onto the dock. And my left cheekbone is throbbing. I gingerly touch it and wince.

“You threw a beer at me,” I accuse.

She shows no remorse. “Because you snuck up behind me in the dark and growled.”

“I didn’t growl. I said hey.”

“It sounded like a growl.”

I grit my teeth. “My voice was hoarse because I just woke up. To find a burglar on my dock—”

“Oh my God, you’re so dramatic. This is my house too.”

“Yeah, a house you’re not supposed to be at.”

“Neither are you!”

“So that gives you the right to throw a beer can at me?” I challenge.

“You pushed me into the lake!” she huffs.

“No, you tripped and pulled me in with you.”

We both glare at each other. We look like drowned rats. Blake’s brown hair is matted to her face and cheeks, and her teeth are chattering loud enough for me to hear it.

“I need to get out of these wet clothes,” she grumbles, putting an end to the most aggravating argument I’ve ever had. “I genuinely think I have hypothermia.”

“You don’t have hypothermia.”

“You don’t know that,” she says over her shoulder, stomping away.

I watch her go, frustration rooting me in place.

Blake Logan.

Fuck.

Of all the people who could’ve showed up to intrude on my summer, the universe had to send the one girl I’ve been avoiding for years.

Smothering a groan, I trudge toward the lounge chair where I was peacefully sleeping before Blake decided to ruin my night. My acoustic guitar leans against the neighboring chair, which is covered with paper, all the sheets I’d torn from my notebook strewn across the canvas fabric. I gather the papers, shoving them into the book, then grab the guitar by its neck and climb the stairs to the main deck. Each step is punctuated by the sloshing from my waterlogged clothes.

Rather than enter through the kitchen, Blake goes around the side of the house. I catch up to her as she stumbles into the mudroom, a huge room full of coat hooks, shoe racks, and cabinets with beach towels. Blake approaches the long bench spanning one wall. When she realizes I’m standing in the doorway, she glares at me again.

“Turn around,” she orders.

I give her some privacy, but it’s impossible not to hear what’s happening behind me. The slopping, squishing noises as she removes her soaked clothing, each item hitting the floor with a plop.

Blake Logan is taking her clothes off.

Jesus fucking Christ.

“Okay,” she says a minute later. “I’m decent.”

I’m relieved to see she’s wearing a royal-blue bathrobe now. Except the robe keeps slipping off her shoulder, the collar gaping just enough to tease at the curve of her collarbone and the smooth, pale skin beneath it. I bet her nipples are hard from the cold. I wonder what color they are. Pale pink, I bet. Like little round, pink pearls.