Burning Up by Anne Marsh

Whistling, he picked up his shovel and got down to work.
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    Loading up the car and heading into town turned out to be harder than it should have been.
    Lily had left Jack shirtless, cutting away at the grass ringing her lavender fields. Man was a walking fantasy, always had been. That was the problem.
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    His truck had been an old, growly beast of a machine, even then. Beat-up but faithful, she’d heard him tell one of his brothers. The paint peeled because he’d put his time and his money where it counted—beneath her hood. That motor purred when he turned the key, and she’d never let him down.
    Even at sixteen, she’d been offended at his talk of Betsey, knowing he was talking about far more than trucks. Even then, it was obvious he lumped all females together, as objects to be used, then abandoned if they no longer served his purpose.
    When the truck had rattled up to the swimming hole that night, she’d known exactly who’d just arrived to put a crimp in her plans. That late in the summer, the sun stayed up half the evening, but twilight was finally wrapping around the trees surrounding the pond where the local kids swam sometimes. The spot was a popular hangout on the weekends. Up until then, though, she’d had the place to herself.
    She’d always loved the pond, even though it was nothing out of the ordinary. Just a swimming hole with ice-cold water and a rope swing for anyone foolhardy enough to launch themselves into the chilly depths. Some years ago, her classmates had liberated a battered picnic table from the school grounds. Part prank and part necessity, the table had become the place for picnic lunches and stolen sips of beer.
    The picnic table was also the place for stolen kisses and, after the kisses, hand-carved memorials. That table was the living record of all the couples who’d come here, kissed and cuddled, and moved on.
    And now, here came Jack Donovan, right on target to find her here. So she’d been for a swim. Alone. It was no big deal, she told herself. He’d come down here for whatever reason, but that reason wasn’t her.
    Coming up from beneath the surface of the pond, breathless from its chill, she shook the water from her face, and there he was. Sprawled on the picnic table’s bench, one hand playing with her towel. Just watching her.
    â€œThought you weren’t coming up,” he said, laughing at her with his eyes.
    â€œI can swim just fine.” She treaded water. Halfway through summer, and the water was still cold and getting colder now that the light was going fast. She’d planned on hauling her ass out of there and making for home. Jack Donovan, though, made her shy.
    â€œIt’s getting dark.” He stated the obvious. She’d discarded her sneakers under the table, and his booted feet dwarfed the pale canvas and tangled laces. Those dark eyes of his ran over her face and shoulders again, and she wondered what he saw. He’d never bothered to look at her before.
    â€œYou should get out now,” he observed, shoving away from the picnic table with that liquid grace that made her breath catch and some other part of her go hot with anticipation. “It’s getting cold. And dark. Girl like you shouldn’t be out this late. Not alone.” Something flared in his eyes, and even she wasn’t so innocent that she didn’t understand. He was thinking things. She could almost see those thoughts forming.
    â€œYou’re not my brother.” She swam lazily toward the edge of the pond, and the heat in his eyes grew. She wasn’t certain how she felt about that heated look, but she was pretty sure she liked it. Liked him.
    â€œNo,” he agreed hoarsely. “I’m not your brother. Good thing for you, too.”
    â€œWhy?” She levered herself out of the pond and perched on the edge, wringing the water from her hair. The summer night was a welcome coolness against her skin,