Chapter Twenty

Julia

They're going to riot over this, but I don't care. This isn't the way perfect planner Julia Kelley handles unforeseen bumps on the road to her clients' marital bliss. This is wild, reckless, former teenage rebel Julia Kelley.

How I've missed her.

"Holy balls, Julia, what the fuck did you do this for?" Sean sideswipes the spray of the hose on his way over to me.

"You and your bros are an hour late to the brunch picnic site. Millie may be a saint but she's not going to let a full no-show slide." I lower the hose. "I can't let this derail your rehearsal dinner or, worse, the actual wedding."

He rakes his fingers through his sandy brown hair, eyes widening in horror.

"You're one of the most chilled-out grooms I've worked with in a while. Easygoing almost to a fault. I need you to not be that right now."

"Millie will be cool," he says, but it's clear from his tone he knows that isn't true.

"She's poured her heart into this wedding weekend. Do you really think she'll be cool if you don't show up for the brunch she spent weeks planning?"

"Oh shit." Reality checks in. He spins around to address his crew. "We fucked up, you guys. We have ten minutes to get presentable—"

"Less," I interject.

"Fuck!" Sean yelps. "Fall out to the Saloon."

They scurry around the tent grabbing up duffle bags and backpacks full of their belongings, some of their eyes still bleary, with hideously grouchy expressions on their faces, but at least they're moving.

"Thankfully, the wardrobe for today is all denim and linen. Wrinkle-free isn't expected," I say, leaning back in relief. Kit is close enough that I can feel the warmth of her body against my back. It sends a pulse through my stomach that I try to keep from showing on my face as the guys file past in a blur.

I spin around, holding the hose away from my body and hers. She looks like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar as she darts her eyes away. The expression sends another jolt of nerves through my body.

"I should shut that off," Kit says, swiftly turning back toward the trough. Her shorts are frayed and fitted, with her cropped white tank top showing off a sliver of her stomach. I have the sudden compulsion to hose her down, and in a knee-jerk reaction that I don't let myself question, I spray the backs of her calves.

She stutters to a stop, screeches, "Oh my God!" before whirling around, her mouth open in alarm. My stoicism breaks, letting the barely contained glee I feel at the sight of her shock and awe seep out from the crevices of my smirk. I point the hose toward the sand, making a small muddy puddle beside my sneakers as laughter rumbles through me.

"What the hell was that?" she asks, shooting back over.

I reply with another lift of the hose, this time to pelt the front of her thighs and shorts. She's jolted again by the cold, but not thwarted this time. She grabs fast for the hose, blocking the next spray with her hand, which sends the water shooting out in all directions. It dampens the baby hairs around my face, splattering cold and sharp against my cheeks and down the front of my shirt. I let out an involuntary yelp.

"Stop! That's freezing," I say, shivering.

She guffaws, lurching forward to grab for the hose. Her hands tighten over mine as she tries to wrench the hose loose from my grip. I twist around, bending over to block her. The move sends a stream of water over the tops of her feet where the skin is exposed through her flip-flops.

As she's trying to pull the hose loose from my hands, I raise my arm, sending a spray of water back down on top of our heads. It hits dead center on my crown, trickling down my neck to wet the shoulders of my blouse and back.

We break apart, shaking out the cold wet like a pair of dogs who just got a bath.

I spin back around to face her. My shirt is wet, but Kit's is soaked. My gaze travels the landscape of her body; the white fabric tank top is now basically transparent, clinging to her ample breasts contained in a lavender t-shirt bra. Her waist is a voluptuous slope, soft and inviting. Goose bumps rise on her neck where water beads against her skin.

My brain gets all fuzzy with desire, dredging up memories from the depths. Hot summer nights in the hammock. Sleepovers in her bed, her curling her toes into my socks, shoving them all the way off my feet. The way our games of touch escalated until finally the only thing we could do was kiss.

Her lips pressed against mine. Tentative. Unsteady.

Then all-consuming, all in, all I could ever imagine wanting.

The memory sends a shock wave through me. The feelings I have now are somehow even more visceral. She's looking at me with the same raw desire; there's no denying it's true. Her eyes drift and stop on the place where my blouse clings, wet against my shape.

I feel reckless and alive for what feels like the very first time in a very long time.

She lunges for the hose, grabbing me firmly before yanking me back against her. Our skin is slick, but her grip is firm. I try to hold on to the hose, but I'm disoriented from the closeness and she manages to work it free from my hands. She jumps back, raising it like a weapon, a playfully mischievous smile dancing to life.

I raise my hands, mocking defeat.

She grins. "I know you, Julia. You'd never go down without a fight."

I know you. She did. Once.

Could she again?

I make a break for it, running diagonally away from her, but she sprays me hard across the left side of my body. I squeal as I maneuver back toward her, grabbing for the hose with one hand and gripping her waist with the other. My fingers slide under her cropped shirt, shoving the fabric up to reveal more of her stomach.

Every touch of skin feels charged. Dangerous with all this water.

She buckles against me, cackling, and manages to work the hose between us. The water soaks us both through—shirts, shorts, jeans, underwear, all the way to my socks—it's too much, I have to let go.

"Mercy," I manage to say.

But she presses her hand to my back, holding me in place. Her mouth hovers near mine, her breath heaves. This close, the ridge of cream lace around the cup of her bra is visible through her shirt.

She lets the hose go and it drops between us. Her hand raises, fingers touching lightly on the edge of my jaw.

Is it too much to hope that Kit Larson is going to kiss me again in this lifetime?

Her hand tenses to tug my chin closer.

The crash of footsteps on the Saloon's wood plank porch sends us shooting apart. Worry flashes in her eyes. She looks over to where the bachelor party emerges.

"Of course," I say, clipped, bitten off with disappointment but not surprise.

I yank the hose up from the ground and walk back to the trough to turn off the water.

It's definitely too much to hope for.