16. Big Girl Pants

Islept like shit last night. If I slept at all. I already regret how I handled things—literally and figuratively. Literally in how I handled my cock, like it was a punishing shaft created in order to spill all my filthy, dark impulses over Evelyn. And figuratively, in the way I said it didn’t even happen.

Caleb was right—I was out of order.

Saturday finds me by the pool, audio of the Surf Rats game playing on my phone, one beer in my hand and another waiting in a small cooler at my side. And sitting like a lump on my chest is a pile of regret.

The back door swings open and Evelyn steps outside, carrying a giant basket, an ice chest, and a towel. But as soon as she sees me, she stops dead in her tracks. Stares. Turns around to go back inside.

“Wait,” I say. “I’ll go, if you want to be out here alone.”

She pauses. “I don’t care if I’m alone—I don’t want to, you know, bother you or whatever.”

Inwardly, I wince. I didn’t mean to make her unsure of herself. “Get out here, relax. The water’s nice. You’ll have to listen to the game, though.”

“Oh yeah, you like that football team. The Beach Bums, right?”

I stare at her in horror, that she could be so far off, but then she cracks a grin. “Kidding, kidding,” she says. “It’s the Surf Rats, it’s baseball, and from the sound of it, Kurimoto just stole second.”

“Fuck,” I say, listening to the roar of excited fans at the ballpark. “I missed it.”

I was too busy trying not to ogle her breasts in that white bathing suit she’s wearing.

“Anyway, if you’re sure you don’t mind…?” she prompts.

“Not at all, make yourself comfortable. It looks like you’ve brought half your room out here.”

She sets down the basket with a snort. “I don’t want to track water inside every time I want something. So here I have an ice chest filled with hard lemonades and bottled water.”

With a flourish, she opens the top.

“I see,” I say.

“And in this basket, I have chips which I am not sharing—get your own, old man.”

“Old man?” I grab my heart as if wounded.

She talks over me, continuing, “As well as cherries which I might be persuaded to share, and red licorice.”

“What’s your stance on sharing red licorice?” I ask.

“Only with my best friends.” She gives me a side-eye. “I don’t think you qualify.”

“Ouch,” I say. Then, quieter, “Hey, I need to say something.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Yeah?”

“Last night—I’m sorry. I was an asshole.”

Shrugging, she says, “You still can’t have my licorice. But it’s fine.”

It’s not fine, but she holds herself with more confidence as she finishes arranging her gear, walks to the pool’s edge, and dives in to start swimming laps.

After a few minutes of listening to the game and pretending not to watch Evelyn in the pool, I give up and dive into the water as well, cannonball-style, so she’s hit in the face with a massive splash when she comes up for air.

“Nice,” she says sarcastically when I come up, and she splashes me back.

We goof around, smacking water at each other. Evelyn creates a barricade from two air mattresses. She’s so busy trying to hold them together and up high that she doesn’t notice I’ve ducked beneath the surface. Underwater, it only takes a few quick, powerful strokes before I can grip her ankle. I give a quick, light tug—enough that she’ll realize she needs to take a breath—and then I pull her down to my level.

Her blond hair swirls around her head. She gives me an affronted look from what I can tell in the blurry water, then punches me. Of course, the hit carries no force down here. She flips me off and I have to hold in my laughter until we both swim up, breaking the surface.

“What the hell, old man?” she says, shoving me and laughing. “I built a freakin’ castle over here, I should be safe!”

“Your fortress is weak, because I just swam under it. Try harder next time, little girl.”

“Psh. I was going easy on you because you’re old.”

Shaking my head at her impertinence, I grab her in my arms.

She screams, a delighted giggle with no real terror behind it. “What are you doing? Unhand me, you wicked old man!”

“Sure, I’ll unhand you.” I lift her up, out of the water. “Take a breath, Trouble.”

“Lincoln? Lincoln, wait, I meant?—”

“Breathe, baby.”

As soon as she gives up and stops screeching, I throw her.

When she comes up, she somehow manages to tread water and flip me off with both hands. I splash her in response.

I don’t think I’ve had this much fun in years. “Come on, Trouble. We should get out, get in the shade for a bit.”

She gives me one last splash because she can’t seem to help pushing my buttons, but I allow it. I get out first and get her towel for her. A breeze has picked up, raising goosebumps over her skin, so I wrap her towel around her shoulders and tug it tight.

Offering me her crooked smile, she says, “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” I say, more gruffly than I intended.

It’s not just lust I’m feeling for my stepbrother’s daughter. I actually care about her.

And that’s more terrifying than anything else.

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