Page 23 of Reunited with the Hometown Hero
Too late.
The boat lurches.
We tip.
And just like that, we're in the water.
I surface with a gasp, flailing for balance as lakeweed tangles around my arm. Noah's head breaks through the surface nearby, water sheeting from his hair.
"Jesus, Riley." He swims toward me, his voice tight. "Are you okay?"
I nod, coughing and pushing wet hair from my eyes. "Yeah—sorry, that turn?—"
"I saw." His tone softens. "You panicked."
I start to apologize, but he reaches out, fingers brushing through my hair. "You've got..." He pulls a string of green muck free, letting it trail from his hand. "Lake goddess chic. Very trendy."
I laugh, breathless. "Better than lake monster couture, I guess."
We tread water together, bobbing gently, the sounds of cheering growing distant as the moment stretches between us.
Noah's eyes lock on mine.
The amusement fades. Heat builds.
His gaze drops to my mouth. My pulse stutters.
He drifts closer, barely a foot away now. The lake laps at our chests, the world shrinking to just the two of us—floating in a memory, suspended between the past and something dangerously present.
"Noah..." My breath catches.
His hand lifts—like he might touch my cheek. Or maybe just brush away another piece of weed. But he stops. Jaw tight. And then he pulls back.
"Come on," he says roughly, swimming toward shore without another word.
I follow in silence.
Together, we make it to the edge, drenched and dripping, hearts pounding—but neither of us says a thing.
I squelch onto the dock, dripping lake water and what I'm pretty sure is a chunk of lily pad clinging to my elbow, to scattered applause and good-natured laughter. My pride is soggy and sinking fast.
Noah emerges behind me, rising from the water like some mythic lake god—towering, soaked, and thoroughly unimpressed. His T-shirt clings to every unfair inch of muscle and heat, dark fabric outlining the ridges of his abs and the flex of his shoulders.
I try not to stare. I fail miserably.
"You think this is funny?" His voice is low, gruff, and pointed as he stalks toward me—more predator than judge.
I blink at him, lips parting in protest—only to see the way lakeweed drips from his hair and a twig sticks to the side of his neck. Something bubbles in my chest. Not nerves. Not embarrassment.
Laughter.
Full-bodied and sudden and impossible to stop.
"You should see yourself," I gasp between giggles.
His brow furrows—until he reaches up and plucks a piece of lake weed from my tangled hair. Our eyes meet, and something cracks wide open between us.
We laugh.
