Page 81 of You Met Me There

Giving in to the temptation, I smack her butt playfully. “You girls will have to get over this. Find a way to win her trust.”

“How?”

I give her a shrug. “Heck if I know. I don’t understand girls. I’m an only child, and you’re hard enough to understand as it is. Two Berns girls is a mystery to me.”

Giggling, she tries to kick my butt while still holding a mug over the water. My quick feet dodge out of the way, so she resorts to cupping a handful of soapsuds from the dishwater, pursing her perfectly pink lips, and blowing them at my face.

White bubbles stick to my cheeks and T-shirt, making a fizzling noise as they pop against my skin and clothes.

I stare at her, a smile spreading. “Did you just⁠—”

“Blow soap at you? I did do that.” She gives me a look that says what are you going to do about it?

In a millisecond, I imagine all the things I want to do. Throwing her over my shoulder and marching her into our bedroom. Pressing her against the wall and taking my time with her as I kiss her senseless.

She must see the desire in my eyes, because hers dip to my lips. Her foot slides slowly, socks silent, as she takes a step back, away from the sink, droplets of water splashing noiselessly on the wood flooring. I step toward her.

“Natalie,” I say, my voice husky.

Her perfectly shaped brow lifts as she brings her blue eyes up to mine. “Yes, Luke?”

“I want you to know,” I say, stepping over the water on the floor, not breaking eye contact with her, “in five seconds I’m going to toss you over my shoulder.”

Natalie’s long lashes flutter. “You promise?”

In a flash, I slide my hand around her waist, across the skin exposed by the short hem of her shirt, and pull her close. Her mouth opens on a gasp as her body presses against mine.

“You asked for this,” I state down to her.

She tips her head back, lifting onto her toes. “I did,” she whispers.

With my other hand, I reach back to the sink, scoop a handful of soapsuds from the surface of the water, and run it through her hair. Her eyes blow wide, mouth agape.

“Luke! What are you doing?” A smile seeps through her scowl as she pushes away from me, laughing.

I don’t let her go. I bring my mouth down to hers before she can escape, sliding both hands—wet and covered in soap bubbles—through her short hair, cupping the back of her neck to bring her nearer.

She leans into my chest, smiling that beautiful smile against my lips.

Then I bend, tossing her over my shoulder before she can run away, and I do everything with her that I imagined.

“You really don’t have to come with me,” Natalie says, gathering her camera, phone, and purse.

Today is the day she’s photographing Juliet’s family. I know she can face Juliet on her own, but I want to be there to support her. Knowing my presence might help to keep the sisters civil, I can’t imagine not going to the shoot.

“I know, but I want to,” I reply. “You know I love watching you work.” My arm rests against the doorframe as I watch her double-check her camera gear. She’s nervous, and it shows in the way she meticulously repacks her bag.

“But it might be weird.” She shakes her head. “I don’t know how Jules will act. It might be super uncomfortable. It’ll probably be tense. I’ve never not finished a shoot before, but I feel like if it’s too much, I might have to bail.”

I run a hand through my hair. It desperately needs a trim, and I mentally make a note to schedule with my barber when I go back to Florida to check on the Bat Cavity.

That’s what I’ve started calling the latest property my dad and I bought. With far more work—and bats—than expected on this one, I wish I’d never gone in on it with him. Calls keep rolling in from contractors, and Dad is beside himself being on his own to deal with it all. But I don’t want to think about that right now.

“You won’t bail,” I tell Natalie. “She may be your sister, but think of this as a job. You do this professionally all the time. Try to compartmentalize the job from the sister.”

She pauses in the middle of shoving an extra camera battery into her bag. “I’ll try. But you know I’m not good at pushing down my feelings. They’re all written on my sleeves and my face and … everywhere,” she says, exasperated.

“I know, but you’re working on it. And don’t think of it as pushing your feelings away, but keeping them for later when you can better process them. You’re already getting better at it.”