Eventually, he gets too far for me to watch, and I’ve given up on worrying he’ll be mowed down by some boat racing past. If he wants to put his life at risk, it’s his prerogative.

As for me, I want to lie back on the wooden pier and look up at the night sky to see what constellations I can discern from out here. It’s not as dark as I’d prefer it, but we’re far enough from major cities that I can see much more of the night sky than I usually can back in Boston. I’ve never been camping, but I imagine this is what it would feel like, alone in the middle of nowhere. I trace the stars with my eyes, trying to draw upon long-dormant names of stars I might have known when I was younger. Orion, Ursa Major, Cassiopeia…the only one I can make out for certain is the Big Dipper, and that doesn’t feel like much of an accomplishment.

I’m busy staring up when I hear Emmett’s distant strokes slicing through the water, growing louder on his return journey. I don’t bother sitting up as he approaches. He thought I would be here sulking with loneliness, and I’m determined to show him I’m not.

Look, see? I completely forgot about you.

He finishes his swim and I feel the pier bow slightly under his weight as he grabs ahold of it. I can’t help but surrender to the swoop of excitement as he hoists himself up like a creature from the depths. He’s breathing hard, and when I look down, he’s sitting back on his heels, staring at me as he tries to slow his racing heart. His hair is slicked back and wet, inky black. The peaks of his cheekbones look severe in the moonlight. I meet his gaze head-on, accepting whatever challenge he’s laying at my feet. A wickedness sets in, the devil in him responding to my unwillingness to bow to him. He pushes forward onto his hands and knees, like a tiger at my feet. He crawls forward, coming over me slowly as water drips down onto my nightgown…down onto my skin. A cold drop hits my clavicle and rolls along the center of my chest, disappearing into my nightgown, and Emmett watches it, hovering over me with his midnight eyes. His breathing is still heavy from exertion.

Goose bumps bloom across my skin as a breeze rolls over us.

I shift, putting forth the most feeble effort imaginable to get out from underneath him. “You’re getting me wet.”

He smiles, enjoying the double entendre. “Isn’t that the point, petite souris? Since you weren’t going to get in, I had to bring the lake to you.”

He’s sopping, which means now I’m sopping.

A water drop hits the peak of my left breast, and my lips part. Everywhere, the fabric begins to stick to my skin, going transparent from the wetness.

Despite the chill in the air, a deep warmth settles over me, the kind of heat that needs kindling if I want it to grow.