Powerless (Chestnut Springs, #3)(37)
The position puts her breasts right at my eye level. And god. I try to be a good friend and not stare, but the bra pushes them up in the most distracting way. The cool air and even colder water has goose bumps dotting the tops of them. Nipples straining against the flimsy fabric.
“You’re going down, Gervais!” She keeps pushing on me, giggling and wiggling and trying her hardest. She’s strong, but not strong enough, and her words are so open to misinterpretation, I can’t even handle it.
“Oh, I’ll go down, Winthrop. But I’m taking you with me.”
And with that warning, I flop back, plunging us both down into the icy depths. For a few beats, it’s silent and dark.
She grabs at me, and I give myself four seconds of insanity in our private bubble beneath the lake.
Our hands roam frantically over one another’s bodies, sluicing through the water. My hand, her thigh. Her hand, my ribs.
Are we playing? Wrestling like when we were kids?
Or are we taking liberties we’d never take above water?
On the fourth second, I push up and away and we both crest the water, panting and staring at each other. Her tongue darts out over her lips, tasting the glacier water clinging there, and her eyes drop to my mouth as I mirror the motion.
The water between us doesn’t feel so cold anymore. I let myself stare at her for another four seconds. The tension expands in my chest, pushing until it feels like it might burst.
“Reminds me of playing in the river when we were kids. Jumping off the bridge on the back quarter.”
She blinks, like I’ve just shaken her awake, and plasters a flat smile on her face. “Yeah. I never did quite get the nerve up to jump off that bridge.”
“Next summer,” I offer, letting myself float away from her so I don’t do something colossally stupid like let myself get all handsy with her again.
“Yeah.” Her teeth chatter as the word passes between her lips, and I nod toward the shore.
“Let’s go. Get you warmed up. Track down some food.”
“I could really use a drink,” she says.
Fucking same I think to myself.
We swim until we can stand. The tiny pebbles dig into the bottoms of my feet, and I work to keep my focus on where I’m going rather than letting my eyes wander over Sloane’s body in the departing light.
She’s too tempting and I’m too confused.
Her eyes stay on the ground too.
On the shore, she dries off with her robe and tries to hand it to me to use as a towel, clutching her arms over her mostly naked body. But it’s her wide eyes that catch my attention. I can’t place the look in them, but I know I’m not letting her walk back to the room uncovered and cold.
I smile and shake my head, pulling the robe from her hand and wrapping it around her shoulders.
“But you’ll be cold,” she says while I give a brisk rub up and down her arms a few times once the garment is in place.
I grab her hand and start walking back to our room. “You don’t need to worry about me, Sunny.”
I don’t look back when I hear her soft response.
“I always worry about you, Jas.”
14
Sloane
Sloane: This waitress is a fan.
Jasper: Sloane.
Sloane: What? She looks like she’s going to gobble you up.
Jasper: Don’t.
Sloane: Are you blushing?
Jasper: She’s a stranger. Doing her job. She isn’t looking at me like anything.
Jasper: Don’t make that face.
Sloane: If you need space, just leave a sock on the hotel room door.
Jasper: Sunny, shut up. I’d never do that to you.
The waitress seats us next to one of the enormous windows overlooking the lake. We didn’t know what to expect at Rose Hill Reach, only that it was right next door to the hotel. It’s a lovely spot though. All windows face the lake and one door opens to a long dock with a wide landing that I’m assuming could function as a patio in the summer.
Inside it’s all vaulted ceilings and dark woods. River stone fireplaces and butcher block tables. In one corner, there are even pool tables and dart boards.
It’s cozy. I almost feel like I’m at a ski lodge as I remove my jacket and scoot down into the rounded wooden chair, gazing out over the water. The water where Jasper and I just . . . well, I don’t know what we were doing.
I glance back at Jasper and watch him fold his tall, powerful frame into a chair that’s too small for him.
He reaches up to take one of the burgundy, leather-bound menus the waitress is now holding out to us. Her eyes widen when the tips of his fingers brush against her hand. Even hidden beneath the brim of his hat, he’s recognizable—especially only four hours away from Calgary.
“Oh my god. Hi,” she breathes out, looking like a kid on Christmas. “You’re Jasper Gervais.” One of her hands falls across her chest, and I have to resist the urge to roll my eyes.
Jasper gives her a kind smile and a gracious little dip of his head. “Hi,” is all he says back, turning his small smile down to the menu. In typical Jasper fashion, he’s friendly, but not that friendly.
Friendly enough that no one can say he’s rude, but not friendly enough to invite more conversation.
Not that it’s ever stopped me.