In the August Heat

thirty-three | deep dive

SITTING AT AUGUST'S kitchen table, I stared at my computer screen, thinking I deserved the burning pain it caused my eyes.

Typed into the search bar were the words August Fletcher, and while it might seem like such a basic thing to do when researching a new subject, I couldn't get myself to do a deep internet dive on the man I'd come to know far better than any subject before.

It felt wrong. Like I was digging into secrets he didn't want me to know. Because if he'd wanted me to know, he would have just told me. He'd told me everything else but hadn't told me this. And there had to be a reason.

But if I couldn't figure out the exact cause for his early retirement, I would never be able to finish this assignment the way my boss wanted me to. Although, to be honest, I wasn't sure I wanted to finish this assignment the way I was assigned. But I owed it to the project to get the full picture before making that decision.

Right?

I tapped my fingers absent-mindedly at the keys, wondering why, if that were true, I couldn't just press enter and figure it out for myself.

Sighing, I closed my eyes. Even without this information, I knew deep down that August would never return to football. I just knew. Deep in my bones, I knew. He belonged here, on this island. And I could tell he didn't have any intention of leaving. Not again. Not after he'd lost all the people and all the reasons he'd chased his passions to New York.

So, didn't that make this a wash anyway?

"What is it, Castle?"

August's voice behind me made me jump, my eyes flicking open. My hand flew to my chest as I twisted to look at him, and oh.

August had been spending a lot of time in his home gym lately, focused on rehabilitating his knee—or rather, re-rehabilitating. But to my understanding, that involved a lot of stretching, strengthening exercises, and careful manipulation. He wasn't pushing the pedal to the metal; in fact, it was a lot of the opposite. It was gradual, but I could tell by his mood and how he walked more confidently that he was definitely on the mend.

The image before me confirmed that.

A light sheen of sweat covered August's bare chest. Actually, no, that was an understatement.

He was dripping. Sweat cascaded through the ripples of muscles on his stomach, disappearing into the low waistband of his shorts. He pushed a hand through his sweat-soaked hair, slicking it back, and my pulse sped up.

We'd been good. I'd slept in the guest bedroom for nearly a week, and while I missed his touch, we hadn't pushed past goodnight kisses for days—not since we returned from Sunny's last Wednesday.

The wait was unbearable. It was even worse now that I knew how goddamn talented he was, how hot our chemistry was, and how dirty August's mouth was. And this—the sight before me— certainly wasn't helping.