Page 17 of The Trouble with Love and Ink
“What are you doing here?” I asked because seeing him in my lane, in my pool, was like running into your gynecologist at the grocery store.
Worse. This was one of the few places I could unwind, and now I had to share with someone who flustered me to a point where I felt unrecognizable.
“Swimming,” he answered with a flash of perfect teeth. “What are you doing here? I thought you only did open water.”
“Har. Har.” I looked around at the sad-looking, two-lane pool. This was like the Dollar General of gyms. “There have got to be natatoriums in the area that better suit your standards.”
“What standards?”
I motioned vaguely toward his well-defined physique. He looked as if he’d been sculpted in pools with more lanes, pools more akin to an Olympic standard in every aspect.
He hiked an eyebrow, waiting for me to elaborate. But when I just shook my head, he said, “As I’m sure you are aware, this one is convenient, being so close to work.”
“It used to be convenient,” I muttered.
Beck smirked, and I suddenly became painfully aware of how undressed I was, crouched only a couple feet from him. While swimming might have tightened my arms and shoulders, I still had thighs that tattled on me for never turning down cake. And though I generally felt comfortable in my own skin, I found it difficult being half-naked in front of someone who probably ate kale for breakfast. Seriously, I could have guessed he had a nice body under those button-downs. But what I was seeing was . . . more than just nice. It was unholy.
A flicker of flight response kicked in. I could leave, kiss my swimming spot goodbye, and probably save myself the embarrassment of Beck scrutinizing my very liberal freestyle. But leaving wouldn’t be saving face. Not really. It felt like losing to him, and I’d done enough of that lately.
Instead, I slipped into the biting water, clamping down on the urge to gasp at the polar plunge. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing a sign of weakness so early in the workout.
“Just stay on your side,” I said.
Then I hit play on my headphones, pushing off from the wall before he could retort.
On a normal, pre-Beck day, I’d get lost in the serenity of my all-acoustic playlist and in the way the light dances across the bottom of the pool. Today, Beck’s body took up all my headspace with his lean, muscular frame, which only made me angry with myself. I could not appreciate Beckett’s—Beck, AKA Senior-level Asshole—body. Not allowed.
He kept darting past me, never seeming to tire. Annoying as hell with his graceful kick turns, while I had to stop and push off the side of the wall to go the other way. He had a desk job, for Pete’s sake. Why did he need that much endurance?
I’d stopped every three hundred meters for a break, but toward the end of my workout, Beck finally stopped too, barely out of breath while I thought I’d pass out, trying to keep my huffing from him.
As he paused for another drink, my eyes were again drawn to his tattoo. I tried to guess what the flowers were—peonies, maybe—which stemmed from two bold, black bands. The space between the bands seemed empty. And I couldn’t help but contemplate the meaning behind it. Was the negative space deliberate?
Beck caught me staring. He raised an eyebrow as he drank, his Adam’s apple bobbing past a singular freckle on his throat.
“I wouldn’t have pinned you as a tattoo guy,” I said, taking my own sip of water.
“I don’t know if I’d say I’m a ‘tattoo guy.’” He held onto the wall, then pushed against it with his legs, stretching his arms and back. I definitely did not admire the chords of muscles beneath his skin. “It’s just the one for now.”
“You really into flowers or something?” I asked, trying to dig a little but also because I found myself genuinely curious.
He made a clicking noise of disapproval. “No. Not really into flowers.”
“Then what’s the story?”
He stopped stretching, a playful glint in his eyes. “I’ll tell you when you beat me at one hundred.”
Pssh. Two laps against Aquaman. I didn’t have a prayer. “Fine. Keep your secrets.”
“Come on. It will be good motivation.”
“You’ve seen me swim. If you can even call it that. It’s more like aggressive floating.”
He laughed. Actually laughed at that. His eyes crinkled at the corners. The amusement was so authentic that I found myself smiling with him until I realized what I was doing.
“Well,” I said, fixing my face back to a safer, neutral expression. “I’d better get back at it. The rest of us mortals have several more laps to catch up to you.”
He’d started to reply, but I was off, not willing to spare another minute with him—the man who’d stolen my raise. Who’d embarrassed and insulted me out on the waterway.
