Hate You Not

“Peach,” he says, reading the label. I sigh.

“Moonshine and wine coolers at a children’s birthday party. Welcome to southwest Georgia.” I let go of the flamingo as Burke twists the top off.

I watch as he swallows some, pauses, then gulps more. He brings the bottle down from his mouth and gives me a crooked grin. “It’s kind of good.”

“Yeah, I bet it’s good like sugar cereal. I got the kids some Trix the other day. Did you know they literally threw it away? Bad dyes and too much sugar in the morning. Did you know morning is the worst time of the day to eat a lot of sugar?”

He’s grinning. Just grinning. Saying nothing. And I’m rambling.

He holds the drink out to me, and I take it, sinking down into the water as one of my hands stops paddling to hold onto it. As I take a swallow, the crickets seem to buzz more loudly. His eyes look like molten silver in the moonlight. Chills sweep up my arms, and my heartbeat seems to stutter. I smack my lips to break the spell of the moment and shake my head.

“Better hot than cold, I think.” Burke grabs the flamingo float, pulling it back toward me. “Hold onto this and you can hold your drink with your other hand.”

I snort. “Classy.” But I do it.

He’s smiling like we’re sharing some fun secret as he twists open another bottle.

I watch him drink it with one hand while treading water with his other. I can feel the water bend where his legs kick under the surface, but he doesn’t look off-balance with just one arm treading.

“You must work out like a maniac.”

He shrugs a shoulder. “Just average.”

“Average for a millionaire.” I’d wager nothing about Burke Masterson is “average.”

He frowns deeply, shaking his head. “I wish you wouldn’t say that.”

“What?”

“I don’t know.” He shakes his head again and has another swallow of the drink. When he lowers it from his mouth, he looks angry…or maybe that’s a contemplative face. The fact that I’m not sure just underscores how little I know him. In this moment, I wish I knew him better.

“I guess it’s not fair for me to have objections,” he says, clearly thinking aloud. “Not with how I treated you.”

How did he treat me? “You mean like…you put me in a box or something? And now you feel like I’m putting you in one?”

He presses his lips into a firm line, still looking troubled. “Yeah. I guess so.”

Empathy wells in me, fierce and unexpected. “I’ve been making you pay for that ever since. I’m sorry.” I take a swig of my drink, chewing on it. “I think part of it is that I like to pick on you, like back in kindergarten. Tease you.”

He gives me a small smile. Then he grabs hold of the flamingo. We’re side by side, and so at first, we almost tip the float over. But Burke swims around so he’s across from me and lays his big, muscular arm across the middle. He reaches his fingers out, as if he wants me to grab on, and I grab his hand.

Our legs brush beneath the water as he seems to look right through me. Heat blooms up my arm, and then my face is burning. I wait for him to let go of my hand. Instead, he threads his fingers through mine.

For the longest moment, we’re just there together, our calves brushing again underwater, our hands clasped. He adjusts his grasp on my hand and glides his thumb over my knuckles. I stop kicking, just holding onto the float and letting my legs drift aimlessly.

“What were you like in kindergarten?” I whisper, trying desperately to ease the tension in my chest. “Tell me what baby Burke was like.”

He smiles again, and it’s this tentative smile—almost a shy smile. For a second, he looks like he’s debating what to say. Then he says, “I didn’t like school.”

“Really? But you’re a Ravenclaw.”

That makes him grin. “I was a homebody,” he says as our legs brush once more, and sparks of heat shoot through me. “My brother was still home then, when I was starting. As well as my mom,” he says.

He swallows, and our eyes are locked over the flamingo’s wings. I can barely drag air into my lungs.

“So you were sad to go?” I manage.

He props his chin on his thick arm, the one that’s stretched across the float, and grips my fingers, giving them a little squeeze. “Yeah. I didn’t like it.”

“Aww. That’s kinda sad.”

“It was a good school,” he says. “Good people. It worked out.” His eyebrows arch. “What about you?”

“Well, I was at the slum school. Kidding.” A breeze blows through the pine trees, and I let myself sink down into the water just a bit more. “I was here, and it was okay. I had wanted to go for years. Because of Shawn and Mary Helen and Sutt. I was a dramatic child.” He smirks at that. “I thought it was hell to be left with my mama playing Play-Doh and watering the flowers and swimming in our pool all day.”