The Neighbor Wager Read Online Crystal Kaswell

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Chick Lit, Contemporary Tags Authors:
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Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 103102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
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I follow her deeper, wading into the waves.

Deeper.

Everyone who grows up in this neighborhood learns to swim well.

Mom made sure I had lessons, but she didn’t send me to summer practices or take me to the beach. I didn’t spend much time in the water until I moved in with Grandma, and by then, I was too old to learn it in my bones.

I lack Deanna’s grace, but I still feel in my element. It’s a rare feeling for me, especially in California, especially at the beach.

This isn’t my place.

It’s not the cool water or the warm sun or the murmur of family fun.

It’s her.

I wade to her, then I kick off the sand and I swim.

She watches me approach with interest in her eyes.

“We’re somewhere private.” I reach her. “Time to spill.”

She smiles and places her hand on my shoulder. “Can you reach the bottom?”

“I’m only an inch taller than you.” Not that I mind. There’s something about being the same height. We align in just the right way.

She towers over me in her higher heels, but I don’t mind that, either.

She’s beautiful and powerful. She should show it.

If she wants to wear heels to drink or dance, I’m not going to deny her.

Get a grip. Now.

The water is cold, but it’s not cold enough, not even up to my neck.

The brush of her hand pulls me back to the moment.

Deanna slips her arm around my neck. “Comfortable?”

“You’re the stronger swimmer.”

She grins. “What happened to the chivalry?”

“I don’t remember offering chivalry.”

“You used to draw all those knights and princesses and dragons.”

“Used to,” I say.

“You wanted to do the art on Magic cards.”

I did. “You noticed?”

She nods and smiles. “Why did you stop?”

“My tastes changed.” Intent drops into the words. My tastes changed. In art. In food. In alcohol. In her.

“I can carry you.” She moves closer. Her thigh brushes my hip. Her feet brush my back. “If you need the help.”

Slowly, she hooks her legs around my waist.

She keeps a few inches of water between us.

I hate those inches.

I need those inches.

I bring my hand to her lower back and pull her closer.

Two inches between us.

One.

One half.

Bit by bit, her body sinks into mine. Her pelvis, her stomach, her chest.

In the water, we’re both slippery. I have to work to hold onto her.

I want to work to hold onto her.

Here.

Everywhere.

I don’t remember why we’re here anymore. I don’t remember our wager or my ulterior motives. Or hers.

None of that matters.

The interest in her eyes, the softness of her skin, the need in her expression—

That’s the only thing that matters.

This is the Deanna no one else knows. The woman who misses her mom, who wants to understand love, who never shows anyone else where she hurts.

I want to see.

I want to see everything.

I don’t know how to say it, so I pull her closer. The water fights me, tries to pull us out to sea, to crash us into the shore.

Again and again, I pull her closer.

“It’s easier if you don’t fight the current.” She releases me enough to sway with the water.

I sway back toward her. Then away. Back and forth. Always coming closer. Never touching. “Deanna Huntington is giving me a lesson in surrender?”

“It’s not a metaphor,” she says. “It’s a technique.”

It is, though. It explains everything. “You’re dodging the topic.”

“Why do you care what I think of love anyway?” she asks. “Do you really believe in this mission? Do you really see that future? Can you picture it?”

“What future?” I ask.

“Lexi.”

The word feels wrong. It steals the warmth from the air.

Yesterday, the answer was obvious. Now, it’s murky. Strange.

“How would I picture her?” I ask.

“What do you picture, when you think about your life?” She looks into my eyes, all softness and curiosity. “Art on the walls of the MoMA? A graphic novel series? A penthouse downtown?”

“Straight to material things?”

She shakes her head, still soft. “A home. Decorated with art, probably. That guy who does the comic-inspired stuff.”

“I have four Lichtenstein prints in my room at Grandma’s.”

She smiles and digs her fingers into my shoulders. “Do you see that?”

Right now? I dream about Grandma getting better, sticking around for a long time. “What do you imagine, Deanna?”

“Why?”

“I need an example,” I say.

“I’m not a dreamer.”

“Then as close as you get.”

She nods and sways along with the water.

For a long moment, we stay there, in the cold water and the warm sun, comfortable with the silence between us, the strange mix of tension and closeness.

There is something here, something I don’t understand.

“Sometimes, I visualize,” she says. “I didn’t believe in it at first, but my therapist, the one I saw after Mom died, talked me into trying it. I always feel silly when I do it, but it helps with nerves.”

It’s not hard to imagine her nervous. Not right now.


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