I want to call out. To saythank GodorhelporI'm sorry I overestimated my ability to handle a paddleboard and I’m gonna pass out now, ‘kay?
"Hold on," I hear, and suddenly the water shifts around me, cooler currents mixing with warm as he approaches.
Strong arms wrap around my body. Warm and solid and skilled, like they've done this before. Like I'm not the first person he's pulled from these waters. His chest is broad and solid against my back, and I can feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat through his wet shirt.
"I've got you," he says, his voice rumbling against my ear. It's rough-edged but gentle, and for the first time since I hit the water, I believe I might actually be okay. “You can let go now.”
So, I do. I let go of the board, and with it, the last of the willpower tethering me to consciousness.
Chapter 2
Boone
Thelake'squietthismorning.
Sun's high, casting lazy shadows through the pine needles that drift down like nature's confetti. There’s a gentle breeze, just enough to ripple the surface in tiny waves that catch the light. The water is as still as glass in the protected coves where the fish like to hide.
I've got a line in, but I'm not really fishing. Just sitting on the weathered dock, listening to the creak of old wood beneath me, trying to block out memories and regrets. Something about this spot always settles me. The way the mountains rise up on three sides, creating a natural amphitheater that seems to hold sound and silence in equal measure.
I shift on the dock, the rough planks warm against my thighs through worn denim, and flick the reel once with a practiced motion. The line arcs out in a perfect cast, landing with barely a ripple thirty feet out.
Then I pause. There's something different in the water.
A ripple that doesn't match the wind pattern. A splash that sounds out of place and wrong.
At first, I think it's just a bird diving for fish. Maybe a bass breaking the surface to snatch an unwary insect.
But then I hear a sharp sound. A choked gasp that carries across the water.
I use my hands to shield my eyes and scan the water.There.A woman’s clinging to a paddleboard. Her head hangs low, dark hair plastered to her skull.She’s injured.
My blood runs cold, that familiar ice-water shock that means someone's in trouble.
I drop the fishing rod without thinking. It clatters against the dock as muscle memory takes over.Don't hesitate. Don't second-guess. Just move.
I dive in, the cool water closing over my head in a rush of bubbles and muffled sound. When I surface, I'm already swimming hard, each stroke eating up the distance between us. The lake wraps around me, familiar as an old friend, but urgency cuts through everything else.
She's maybe thirty, forty feet out. Not far for a strong swimmer.
But she's slipping. I can see it in the way her grip keeps loosening.Hurry.
I yell at her to hold on. That I’m almost there.
By the time I reach her, her fingers have started to go slack against the fiberglass. Her lips are pale as winter, eyes half-lidded and unfocused.
"Hey," I bark, close enough now to reach out and touch her. "Stay with me."
Nothing. Not even a flicker of recognition.
I grab her before she can sink, one arm sliding under her back, the other curling around her waist. Warm blood slides down the side of her face in a steady stream.
Shit.
"You're okay," I say, voice dropping to that low, steady tone I learned during my time as an EMT. "I've got you."
She doesn't answer. But she doesn't fight me either, which is something.
Her head drops against my chest, and all I can hear is the rush of my own breath and the pounding of my heart echoing in my ears. I tighten my grip and start back toward shore, every muscle tense with purpose.
