I swear he’s smoldering right now. “Clearly…” He looks down. “I do.”

“I’m not a prostitute, Quinn. Sure, you can pay someone to take care of that for you or maybe even use your own hand.”

“Too many blisters.” He jokes.

“I bet.”

He leans down until his face is inches from mine. “You know, for someone who seems to like Ambrose, you sure are blushing a lot.”

“Any girl would.”

He looks like he doesn’t believe me, and I sound like I don’t believe me. It’s a problem.

Quinn’s eyes flash to my mouth before he grins and whispers, “In three, two, one—“

“--Get some fucking clothes on, Quinn!” Ambrose shouts, and then he’s diving into the water and pulling Quinn away from me, then shoving him deeper down.

I truly think Quinn might die when Ambrose finally lets him up for air. “Good thing I was a swimmer.” He’s panting. “Knew you’d be watching. Thanks for joining us.”

“Dick!” Ambrose splashes him. “Seriously, such a dick.”

“Why yes, it is a glorious dick, thank you, what do you think, Mary-Belle?”

I just shake my head. “That you’re both insane and should stop talking about your dicks like trophies?”

“I don’t need to talk about mine for you to know how much I treasure it.” Ambrose winks.

I feel my cheeks heat and look away.

Yeah, it would be impossible to forget some of what went down between us, and that kiss today didn’t help.

Water suddenly splashes my uniform.

“Hey!” I yell.

Both guys have that look in their eyes that says you’re about to get taken down. The sudden shift in Ambrose is welcome but also weird, weird that only Quinn knows how to pull it off, how to bring the Ambrose I fell for back.

“Don’t.” I start to get up, but it’s too late. Ambrose reaches for me while Quinn laughs, I splash into the cool water, clothes and all.

When I get to the surface, Ambrose is in front of me, and Quinn is to the side.

“You should probably take off your jacket.” Ambrose’s lips look almost swollen, like he’s been biting down on them. He reaches for my jacket and tugs it off, leaving me in nothing but a white, now see-through, button-up shirt.

“That too,” Quinn adds. “I think she needs help, Ambrose.”

I’m wearing one of the expensive lacy white bras with a name I can’t pronounce. I’m treading water with one hand, trying to undo the buttons with the other, when Ambrose reaches out and, one by one, undoes the buttons. His hands are warm around my waist, he tugs the right arm, then the left free until I’m in nothing but a skirt and, thank God, my black boy shorts normal underwear. My bra floats next to us. What in the ever-loving hell is happening?

I’m pressed against him now; he’s at least in swim trunks. I try not to panic that Quinn is just being a creeper and watching all of this or that I’m alone with both of these magnetic men when I feel fingertips on my lower back, a button is undone, then a zipper, and then my skirt is completely off.