I freeze.
The sound of the river swells in my ears, louder than her breath, louder than mine. My throat tightens. My lungs go shallow. My body won’t move as memories threaten to overwhelm me—Jake's laughter, the splash of bodies hitting water, the horrifying silence that followed his final plunge.
My foot lifts again.
And I freeze.
I can’t.
“I’m sorry,” I choke out. “I want to, I do, but I just—.”
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. Just steps forward until she’s inches from me, the water swirling at her hips, her hand still outstretched. She wraps her wet fingers around mine and squeezes.
Her thumb brushes over my knuckles. “It’s okay,” she says, quiet and steady.
The gentle understanding in her voice undoes me. I lean into her touch, closing my eyes briefly. “It's just water,” I say, trying to convince myself as much as her.
“It's never just water,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “Not for either of us.”
When I open my eyes, her face is inches from mine, those expressive eyes searching my face with an intensity that makes my heart hammer against my ribs.
She just stands there with me, both of us silent, the sun rising over the water like it doesn’t care what today is, as I try to reconcile the water that took my brother with the water that gives her life.
And suddenly I do something I haven’t done in a long time.
Ihope.
Because maybe, just maybe, she’s not just the girl who swims like the river loves her back.
Maybe she’s the one who can teach me how to breathe again.
Chapter 21
Grant
The Whiskey Barrel ain’t fancy, but it’s got everything we need—cheap beer, pool tables that lean slightly left, and enough neon signs to give a man a sunburn at midnight. Sawdust’s scattered across the floor like it’s trying to hide the sins of the boots that’ve walked here before.
A mechanical bull sits in the corner like a challenge, and there’s always at least one idiot who thinks tequila improves their riding skills.
Tonight, it’s packed tighter than a bull chute. It’s loud with locals standing shoulder to shoulder, boots stomping, glasses clinking, laughter and twangy music bleeding into every crevice of the bar.
The Taylors roll in like we own the place—which, to be fair, we do. After fifteen years of loyal, rowdy patronage, Mason and I bought a majority stake in the Whisky Barrell. Brendan, the bartender barely glances up before lining up our usuals, and there’s a dent in the leather booth that fits my ass like a glove.
Ryan, Christian, Mason, Mia, and Lily trail in just behind me, all of them peeling off toward the bar. Annie from the Caffeine Drip coffee shop joins us as well at the bar.
I take my beer and head for the booth, trying like hell to look casual.
But I’m not watching the bar.
Not watching the bull.
No. I’m locked in on her and trying not to look obvious about who I’m looking at.But hell, I’ve got no damn subtlety when it comes to her.
She strolls over to the booth with Lily, tipping her head back and laughing with Christian in tow, hips swaying and completely unaware.Damn.
This woman moves like temptation’s got a home address and it’s written across her hips. Her steps are unhurried, confident, like she owns the air around her and leases it to the rest of us at will. Anddamnif I don’t pay the price.
My jeans are too damn tight, and it’s got nothing to do with the fit.
