“For what?” I rasp back, a little confused as to what she’s talking about. “I already told you it was fine for you to come in.” Even though I’m not so sure that’s true.

Tiny, flimsy straps lay across her collarbones and wrap around her shoulders. So easily ripped away.

“For doing the hillbilly lettuce thing.” She shakes her head, and another melodic laugh bubbles out of her, like she just can’t quite believe it. “I can’t believe I got duped by a five-year-old.”

My lips almost tug up at that. Hillbilly lettuce. “Well, you’ve worked with kids. I’m sure you know how to handle it.” I’m mentally patting myself on the back for complimenting her—sort of—when she drops a bomb I didn’t see coming.

“I haven’t worked with kids at all.”

I go deathly still before pulling my arms down into the water and sitting up tall. “Pardon me?”

She must hear the bite in my voice because her head tips in my direction and her eyes narrow as she sits up too, the water droplets trailing down over her full chest, right into the valley between her breasts. I grind my teeth at letting my eyes follow and snap them back up to hers when she replies with, “Watch your step, Eaton.”

Swallowing, I stare at her from the opposite side of the tub, facing off. “Summer told me you had worked with children. She said you have, and I quote, ‘lots of experience working with rowdy boys.’”

I watch Willa’s expression transform from irritated to incredulous. “She didn’t.”

“She did.”

“Did she elaborate?” Willa scrubs a wet hand over her face and slides it up to the top of her hair, before hitting the twisted knot of her fiery strands. “Did you ask any further questions? God. I should have given you a resume or something. This is so awkward, even by my standards. And it takes a lot to make me uncomfortable.”

“So, you have how much experience working with kids?”

She barks out her surprise, strawberry lips parting in the most tempting way. “None. Zero. Zilch. I’m a bartender.”

My fingers clench into fists beneath the water. “A bartender?”

“Yeah. I guess I do have lots of experience with rowdy boys, but not, ya know, children. Adult boys?”

“Summer is dead.”

Her lips press together and wiggle under the strain of holding back. Laughter erupts from her in the most enthralling way. I shouldn’t be charmed but she’s so genuinely amused. It’s hard to not be at least a little captivated.

Her head tilts back and the notes of her laugh drift into the surrounding night.

“It’s not funny,” I say, but I don’t mean it, really. I mean . . . it’s kind of funny. Just not haha funny.