Page 64 of Fate, Interrupted

He gives me the look—somewhere between a smile and exasperation, landing on neither. Against all reasonable judgment, I find it extremely attractive. The afternoon light isn’t helping. Sun lower, shadows longer, everything softer than it was.

“You did get better,” I admit, because I’m not entirely without mercy. “Eventually.”

“I told you I would.”

“You hoped you would.”

“That’s the same thing.”

“It really isn’t.”

We start down the dock together, the boards creaking in their water-logged way, the lake lapping against the pilings below us. A teenager sits inside the rental shack, his face glued to his phone, looking up briefly to acknowledge when boats are returned, then looking immediately back at his phone.

The trees at the far end of the parking lot throw long shadows across the gravel, and the air smells like sun-warmed pine, lake water, and the summer sweetness that belongs to days that are shorter than they used to be.

“For the record,” I say, as we step off the dock onto the narrow path, “the poetry was a bold move.”

He exhales. “I regret it deeply.”

“You should. But also, you shouldn’t.”

“That’s not helpful.”

“I thought it was charming,” I say. “Dangerously so. That’s my PSA.”

He glances at me. “Your public service announcement?”

“Yes. Because if you use that picnic basket, rowboat rowing, Spanish poetry schtick on anyone else, they may fall hard for you.”

“What is this? Your Yiddish word of the day? And you, missy, totally fell for my ’schtick.’”

“Your schtick or your stick? I’m so confused now.”

“I love where your mind goes, but unfortunately, we’re not in the middle of the lake anymore. If we were, I’d demonstrate both types, and you could tell me which one you prefer.”

A naughty grin crosses my face as the heat rises up my neck. At the same time, my thighs tighten, and I take a deep breath.

“Too bad we’re losing daylight. I don’t know about you, but I’d be up for some more rowing practice.”

His laugh is low and warm. It hasn’t escaped me that this man is dangerous on so many levels, and I’m absolutely intrigued with him.

We reach the far end of the lot, and I spot his truck under the wide maple, the shade having moved since morning so it’s only half covered now, the hood catching the late light. I’m in the middle of settling the brim of my hat when Silas’s stride changes.

It’s subtle. A fractional change in his movement, the change in a person who has noticed the change and is working out whether to name it.

I follow his gaze.

Henry. He comes around the back of a dark pickup parked at the far edge of the lot, hands loose in his pockets, moving with the easy pace I associate with him. I smile again, looking at him. Henry is an attractive guy, despite all his apparent goofiness. His sandy hair is windblown, and from a distance, he and Silas look alike. The jaw, the line of the shoulders, and the same self-possession. Things they both carry.

He’s grinning before he reaches us, the kind of grin that has already taken in the full situation and found it delightful.

“Well,” he says, his voice carrying easily across the gravel. “This explains your missing truck.”

I glance at Silas. “So coincidental.”

“Unfortunately.”

Henry’s gaze moves between Silas and me with warm curiosity, noticing the details without making them feel like an inspection.