Free Barefoot Summer by Denise Hunter

water absorbed the words like a greedy sponge.
    She let her legs go limp in the water, starting at the hips, working down to her knees, her ankles. Her arms stretched out limply, her elbow brushing his stomach.
    She was almost floating. She could feel his arms under her still, but just for extra support. The water tickled her cheeks, her chin.
    Stay relaxed. Bodies float. Breathe in. Breathe out.
    He said something again, encouragement probably. She was doing good. She was doing great.
    The water kissed the corners of her mouth. She locked her lips shut, breathed through her nose. Her breaths became shallow, the rush of oxygen drying her throat.
    He was talking again, his tone soothing.
    Relax. Relax. Relax. Breathe. In. Out. Think limp.
    Loose.
    Light.
    He’s right here, holding you up—
    Wait, where were his hands? She didn’t feel his hands.
    She was floating on her own.
    And then she wasn’t.
    He reached for her, but not before water closed over her face, not before she sucked in a mouthful of creek.
    She grabbed for him, coughing. Her feet sought firm ground.
    “You’re okay. You’re fine.”
    Standing now, she pushed at him, hacking. “You’re not the one with a lungful of creek water.”
    “You were floating though. You did it.”
    “You let go!”
    “And you did it. All by yourself.”
    “Yeah, right before I drowned.”
    “You didn’t drown. You aren’t going to drown. Trust me.”
    She gave a final cough, glaring at him. Trust. She thought of Jade, of all the stunts he’d pulled in the past.
    “Well, I don’t trust you, okay?” She made eye contact long enough to make her point.
    Something flickered in his eyes, and she steeled herself against it.
    She was blowing this out of proportion. She knew that. But she didn’t like being at his mercy. It wasn’t a safe place to be.
    “I need a minute.” She waded away a few feet, coughed, wiped her face dry. She studied a wispy cloud drifting slowly across the blue sky. A blue jay cried out. Somewhere upstream, water rippled over mossy rocks. She pulled in a lungful of pine-scented air. She could feel Beckett’s eyes burning into her back.
    She would trust him—maybe—if he’d just tell her what happened with Jade.
    She remembered her conversation with Ryan, her resolve to find out what happened. If Madison knew the truth, maybe she could reason with her sister, talk her into coming home—if Jade ever called.
    She turned and found him looking at her. “When are you going to tell me what happened with Jade?”
    His brows went taut, his lips flattened. “If she wants you to know, she’ll tell you herself.”
    “Well, she isn’t here.”
    “She’s an adult, Madison.”
    Didn’t he know how fragile Jade was? Had Beckett only been toying with her feelings? Were those secret admirer notes somekind of game to him? That he could be so careless with Jade’s heart made heat flood her cheeks.

    “What did you do to her?” Madison asked.
    “I didn’t do anything.” Beckett clenched his jaw, locked it down tight before he said something he regretted.
    He’d gladly tell her if the truth weren’t so revealing. If he didn’t have something personal at stake.
    “You did something . She wouldn’t have left otherwise, Beckett. She was happy when you left for the banquet, and then she was gone. If you don’t have anything to hide, just tell me.”
    He turned away. Did she think it didn’t kill him to know he’d hurt Jade? He’d prayed for her every day since she left.
    “I didn’t hurt her.” Not the way Madison thought anyway.
    “Then what happened?” Her voice was closer. “Just tell me.”
    He turned, took in her beautiful face. The way her eyes shimmered. The way her elfin chin lifted. A bead of water trickled down her temple, down the planes of her cheek like a teardrop. He barely stopped himself from brushing it away.
    “We should get back to work,” he said softly. “I have someplace to be in an hour.”
    Something flashed in