Brock watches me intently, his eyes creased in amusement with every step we take toward a graying, old wooden pier. I move to the edge and look out over the water. It’s huge, its ending nowhere in sight. Miles upon miles of nothing but pristine lake, filled with small boats, families in canoes, and people fishing for as far as my eyes can see. Though we’re surrounded by life in every sense of the word, we’re in our own world, tucked away in a private cove.
I take a deep breath, relishing the sun on my skin as Brock sets everything up. Nevertheless, it’s sweltering out, so I do what I deem necessary to avoid succumbing to a slow, heat-induced death. I kick off my Chucks and slip my T-shirt over my head, leaving me in only a bra and red cotton shorts.
From behind me, Brock roughly clears his throat.
I turn and find him staring, wide-eyed, his mouth parted. “Stop. A bra is the same as a bikini top. Besides, the little schizophrenic woman inside of my head is telling me you’ve seen your share of bras.”
He smiles and reaches into the cooler for two beers. “Want one?”
“You’re going to serve alcohol to an underaged girl?” I take the ice-cold Heineken and slide it against my neck, enjoying the temporary chill it brings to my flesh. “Such a bad, bad boy.”
“How old are you?” he asks, his eyes playfully narrowed.
“Nineteen, soon to be twenty.” With no luck, I attempt to twist off the cap.
Brock takes the bottle and de-caps it with an opener. However, he doesn’t hand it back. Instead, he takes a long gulp, emptying half its contents.
“What the heck?” I snatch the bottle from him. “Not cool. I just deducted a point.”
He turns and jogs toward the Hummer, calling over his shoulder, “Well, you are underage, my beautiful Ber. But it’s all good. I’ve got a few million points left.”
“Wiseass,” I mumble, watching him open the driver’s-side door. I enjoy the view when he leans in to flip on the stereo, his cargo-short-covered ass in my line of sight as The Script’s “Broken Arrow” pelts from the speakers.
Brock leaves the door open and jogs back to the pier. “We needed music.”
I nod in agreement.
“You like The Script?” He unbuttons his shirt, his smirk letting me know he’s about to torture me with his bare skin.
A second then third sporadic nod, a nervous swallow greasing my throat as he peels the material from his body. The dick’s beating me. I may have to reconsider not flawing his gorgeous teeth. Left only in his cargo shorts and Nike Free Runs, Brock smiles, and I’m the one who’s staring now. I’m also pretty sure my mouth is hanging open, drool possibly involved in this embarrassing, mathematical turn of arrogant equations.
His chest is cut, layered with slabs of lean muscle from the hollow of his glorious neck down to the delectable V between his hips. He has the kind of chest I can lick without getting my tongue twisted up in wiry hair. Not that he doesn’t have any, but he has just the right amount of hair a girl such as myself can appreciate while she rubs oil or chocolate all over it. As he turns, reaching for a fishing pole, my eyes land on a tattoo covering the top half of his right bicep. Barbed wire encases a heart, a skull’s evil, flaming eyes peeking out from the bleeding organ.
He attempts to hand me the fishing pole. “Good. So do I.”
“So do you what?” I ask, my attention still on his chest.
He tucks his finger underneath my chin, lifting my gaze to his. I exhale the breath I’m well aware I’m holding.
“I also like The Script,” he says with a knowing smile. “And stop. It’s just a chest. The little schizophrenic man in my head’s telling me you’ve seen your share of them.”
“I wasn’t staring,” I blurt, yanking the pole from him.
“Whatever you say.” He laughs and squats next to the tackle box.
I sigh, hating that he caught me ogling.
He peers up at me, dangling a helpless worm between his fingers. “You might love fishing, but are you willing to get your hands dirty for it?”
“Everything has to die, right?” I take the slimy worm and hook it onto its awaiting electric chair.
An impressed grin shadows his lips. “Yeah. You’re definitely the coolest girl I’ve ever met.”
With the worm swinging in misery, I bat my lashes, deposit myself on the edge of the pier, and dip my bare feet into the cool water. After removing his sneakers, Brock sits next to me, also dipping his feet in the water. A pleasurable chill runs along my spine when I feel his bare flesh against my ribs.
“I can tell you’re not from around here,” he says, breaking me from the stupidity that seems to have made a cozy nest within my brain.
I cast my line into the water. “How so?”
“You have a West Coast accent.”
“I’m not from the West Coast, and I definitely don’t have an accent.”
“I’m pretty positive you’re from the West Coast, and you sure as fuck have an accent.” He casts his prisoner into the lake, a lazy smile on his face. “But don’t be embarrassed by it. It’s a part of your sexiness.”
“I’m not embarrassed,” I scoff. “You’re the one with a Southern twang.”
He throws his head back and laughs. “Maryland’s far from Southern, but if you say so, I’m nothing but a Southern boy for you, Miss Ber.”
“Oh my God. Would you stop with the whole ‘miss’ thing?” I giggle, knowing this dude, this beast of a competitor, just might shake my faith in all I’ve ever believed in.