When Emmett passes to me next, I attempt a basket, swimming toward the hoop with the ball tucked in one elbow. I’m not expecting for it to go in, which it doesn’t. I’m also not expecting for Gray to guard me, which he does. Rather than snag the ball out of midair, like he’s done to thwart most of Noah’s and Emmett’s attempts, he makes contact. There are no rules to pool basketball. It’s a get the ball through the hoop by any means necessary sort of sport. The water does nothing to muffle the sensation as his palm presses against my stomach.

The ball drops onto the surface of the water several feet from the net.

“Evie!” Noah shouts. “Seriously?”

“That was a fucking foul, Phillips,” Emmett adds.

Neither of them seems concerned by the only thing I’m concerned with—Gray is still touching me. And his hand has dipped lower, grazing the edge of my bikini bottoms. Flirting with danger in more ways than one, considering Noah is about ten feet away from us. It might be too dark to see what’s happening below the water, but it’s obvious how close we are. Emmett, Noah, and Harrison are all too busy arguing about what constitutes an illegal play to notice.

One of Gray’s fingers dip beneath the hem. I inhale sharply, wondering how far he’s possibly planning to take this. I get the answer seconds later when he pulls his hand away.

“You look good in red,” he whispers, then glides away. “Let’s call it,” Gray shouts.

“Yeah, fine. Let’s go downtown,” Emmett says.

I swim to the edge of the pool and pull myself out. My mom keeps a stack of towels in a bin out here. I lift the lid, grab one out, and wrap it around myself. “I’m going to shower, Noah. Congrats again. Have fun downtown, guys.”

“Thanks, Evie,” Noah calls after me. It mixes with the goodbyes from the other guys.

I smile at them as a group—not focusing on anyone in particular—and head inside. I strip off the wet swimwear in my room and walk into the adjoining bathroom.

Minutes later, I’m standing under a steaming stream of water. I already showered after work earlier, so I focus on rinsing the chlorine out of my hair and off my skin and then shut the water off.

There’s a knock on the door as I step out of the shower.

I grab my towel off the hook and wrap it around my body. “Yeah?”

I’m expecting it to be Noah.

But the voice that says, “It’s me,” definitely does not belong to my brother.

There’s something oddly intimate about hearing Gray say, “It’s me,” not, It’s Gray. It alludes to a level of familiarity I guess we’ve reached.