Oh, well. He might have a point there.

He’s not the only one watching us.

He’s flanked by spectators with their cameras trained on our boat. Natch. After all, what’s funnier than a girl falling into a big pond in the city?

I do the only thing I can. Smile and wave. Just smile and wave.

I park my butt in the plastic seat next to my fake fiancé, and we pedal to the shore, where the bearded man glowers at us, telling us to never come back again.

“That won’t be a problem,” I assure him.

As we get off the boat and walk away from the dock, Oliver peels off his T-shirt and hands it to me.

My brow knits. “You’re giving me your shirt?”

“Well, your clothes are a little bit wet.”

I run my eyes up and down his carved chest. “Guess I get a nice view and a shirt. It is my lucky day.”

“Play your cards right, and you can get a shower at my place too.”

And let me tell you, I practically run out of the park for that chance.

I peel off his gray T-shirt then my wet sequined dress, dropping them onto the tiled bathroom floor.

I wiggle my eyebrows as I unhook my soaking wet bra. “I’m sexy wearing Central Park lake water, don’t you think?”

Oliver smiles as he stretches past me to turn on the shower. The water runs, and he unbuttons his jeans then unzips them. “Let me tell you something, Summer. Your sea monster perfume isn’t going to deter me from fucking you, if that’s what you’re asking.”

I shiver from his words, from seeing this side of Oliver Harris, from hearing him say fuck as it applies to me. It’s surreal, but heady too, to experience him like this—wanting me, staring at me, heat and abandon in his eyes.

Even in my swamp creature state, all matted hair and stinking of pond scum, he still gazes at me like I’m not just the object of his desire, but like I’m precious too.

Like fucking isn’t just fucking.

Like it’s so much more.

That’s how I feel too. And I want to tell him and tell him soon.

But first, I need to de-skunk myself.

I let my bra fall to the floor as steam curls from the shower. I peel off my damp panties, hold them up on my fingertip, twirl the cotton fabric, then toss them to the floor as well.

I step into the shower but keep my eyes trained on my best friend. I’m tempted to make a joke, maybe about swamp monsters or sea creatures, but the look in his eyes stops my breath.

Intensity flashes across his irises, a deep and powerful longing in his green gaze.

My heart stutters, then it pounds relentlessly as he pushes his jeans to the floor.

His boxer briefs go whoosh.

His cock springs free, happy to see me in my Central Park state of decay.

“Nice to see you too,” I say as I lean my head back under the water, letting it stream over me.

He steps in, closing the shower door behind us.

I shudder at his nearness, at the way he can’t take his eyes off me.

And at my own spiking pulse.

But I also want to get clean.

Seems Oliver wants that too, because he reaches behind me for the shampoo, pours some into his hands, then washes my hair. He’s tender and gentle, running the shampoo all through my strands then rinsing it out.

I squirt some into my hands and return the favor, loving the feel of his hair between my fingers.

We’re quiet, besides saying the occasional hi, and that feels good, and lots and lots of mmmms.

I don’t trust myself to say anything else. To not blurt out some great, immutable truth. Some pronouncement born from years of admiring him from afar, from endless days of maybe, possibly crushing on my best friend.

Fine, maybe it was more than a crush.

Maybe it’s becoming real, so damn real, but I don’t trust that this new reality will last beyond the here and now.

So I let myself wordlessly enjoy the moment.

He reaches for his shower gel, pours some in his hands, and then lathers up. He rubs along my arms, and I inhale deeply, loving the attention, the care.

He moves up my arms to my shoulders, soaping me, then down my breasts to my belly.

After he squirts more soap, he bends, kneeling on the tiles as the water pounds over us. He soaps up my legs, from my ankles to my knees to my thighs, cleaning all the dirty water off me.

Then he runs his hands up the back of my legs and looks up at me. “I swear this is all I’ve thought about since the other night,” he whispers, and presses his face to my thigh, brushing a kiss against my skin, water droplets sliding down his nose.

“Same here,” I confess, my voice feathery, my need palpable.

“Maybe I am simple, Summer. I just want to touch you again. I want to kiss you and have you and fuck you,” he says, then a rumble emanates from his throat as he turns his face from my leg to my center, pressing his lips against me where I ache for him.

Flicking his tongue against my wetness.

“Oh God,” I gasp the second he makes contact.

And because I’m helpful like that, I widen my stance, spreading my legs a little more.

He groans against me, licking and kissing.