Page 94 of Changing Lanes

“Not for long he doesn’t,” he mumbles.

“You can’t be serious.”

Louder, he barks, “He knows the rules, Paige.”

Reaching the jet ski, he helps heft my water-logged ass onto the back.

“What rules are those?”

“It’s not rocket science. Dude is just trying to piss me off.”

We work together to get him on board, too, before situating ourselves back on the seat but with me in the front this time.

“And why would that piss you off? Unless you don’t let your employees date any of your roommates?”

My stomach churns as sensation returns to my body and I bend to look at Beckett. Eyebrows creased, he stares at a pontoon boat full of passengers flying past, ignoring my questioning stare.

With a huff, I face forward and start the jet ski up again.

My turn.

It’s a while before either of us relaxes enough to actually enjoy ourselves but when we do, it’s like nothing else even matters. Instead of focusing on the tension from the morning and Cruz’s proposition, we choose to live in the moment, helpless to think about anything other than the here and now. After all, if we take our eyes off the present, we’ll miss what’s right in front of us—obstacles constantly threatening to break our progress.

We spend the rest of the day in the water, taking turns and switching out partners whenever we return to shore. Angela proves to be just as fearless as the boys and we spend the most time together, getting to know each other better between the monster waves we chase away from the guys’ watchful eyes.

Cruz doesn’t even try to ride with me, and for whatever reason, I’m thankful.

CHAPTER 21

Paige

Back at the apartment, soaked to the bone and drenched in river stink, I move straight for the bathroom but a hand shoots out just as I turn to close the door, stopping me.

“I thought I could wash your hair for you.” His tone is calm while the pulsing vein in Beckett’s throat is anything but. “So you don’t get any chemicals in your scratches.”

Chemicals? What kind of shampoo does he think I use?

I’m about to decline his seemingly altruistic offer when he says quietly, “Just…let me in.”

My eyes study his and just like before when he uttered that same plea, I do. I open the door wider and let him in.

The bubble I thought I just popped hovers dangerously close in the peripheral. We won’t be able to keep this up after tonight. He has to know that. I need to remember that.

Before I can change my mind, I busy myself testing the temperature then undress and climb in, facing the wall the entire time. I’m clenching and unclenching my fists as I hear him close the curtain after he gets in behind me.

“Get your hair wet.” His husky voice warms the small space even more.

“I, uh-” Yep, that’s my eloquent contribution before I plunge my head under the spray of water to save myself from further embarrassment.

Why did I agree to this?

All of a sudden I feel Beckett’s hands on my scalp, dragging his fingers through my hair to get every strand wet, ratcheting the heat up another couple notches. This is such a bad idea.

Determining it’s wet enough—little does he know—I turn around to watch as he squeezes my shampoo into his palm before coming at me with what can only be described as a Rapunzel-sized amount dripping from his hand.

I manage to block the gooey assault by capturing his hand in mine and wipe most of the heap into the running water.

“Just because you have big hands doesn’t mean you have to fill them completely,” I say, chuckling. At his blank stare, I explain, “You mainly use shampoo to clean the scalp. Conditioner is for the ends. You don’t need a lot of either.”