Page 9 of Leaping Into Love

tiana

The only swimsuit I own has existed as a ball in the back of my underwear drawer for over three years. The last time I wore it was during a trial gym membership I won in a raffle at a landscaping trade show. What I really wanted to win was the indoor hydroponic garden kit. Instead, I got three months at a gym I never used and free swimming in an over-chlorinated pool. It was nothing like the summers I spent in the lake at my grandparents’ cabin, but I took advantage of the opportunity anyway, as much as my schedule allowed.

I didn’t think I’d physically changed in the past three years until I put on the swimsuit. Either my curves have gotten curvier, or I’m suddenly more aware of the soft fleshy areas spilling out of the spandex because I care what Henry will think when he sees me in a publicly accepted version of bra and panties. Since I’d like for him to see me in less, I need to suck it up. And maybe suck it in, too.

Walking to the spot Henry pointed out during a tour of the property will only take a few minutes. Tempted as I am to go barefoot so I can enjoy the sensation of the lush lawn between my toes, there are lots of bees enjoying the clover at this time of year, and I don’t want a stinger to ruin this opportunity to get closer with Henry.

Attempting to move our relationship into intimate territory is a risk in multiple ways. Humiliation if he rejects me—but that I can handle. My skin is as thick as an insect’s exoskeleton. But if my unprofessional, non-platonic interest offends him, he’d be well within his rights to fire me. I’d lose this once-in-a-lifetime dream job. Dream life.

But the tingly sensation I had the moment we met has stayed with me every minute since. It’s grown. It doesn’t feel like off-limits infatuation or scratch-that-itch lust. I’ve been attracted to men before, and this is different. More than physical, it’s a connection. We click easily, naturally. I’ve never experienced this with anyone else, and I know it means something. For the first time in my life, I want it to mean something.

I’m pretty sure—or maybe I just hope—that Henry feels the same. He’s sweet and thoughtful and attentive, and more than once, he’s looked at me with affection. Sometimes with heat that he’s probably unaware his gaze reveals. I know I’ve looked at him the same way, and I haven’t even tried to hide it.

The time we spend together feels more like the early stages of dating than talking to my boss. But he is my boss, and I think that fact would stop him from making the first move. He is very proper, from his mannerisms to his clothes to the way he speaks sometimes. If he didn’t look so young, I’d swear he’s from my grandparents’ generation. I wish they were still alive because not only would they be thrilled that I found this wonderful place where I’m happy and feel like I belong, I’m positive they would’ve liked Henry. They were always sure I’d find my “special someone” one day. And now I think I have.

I give myself one final look in the floor-length mirror while sliding my feet into flip-flops. There’s no point in adjusting my bikini again. As soon as I take a step, the bottoms will once again inch their way up my butt cheeks. Henry has only seen me in jeans, sweatpants, and overalls, none of which do much to accentuate my backside. Hopefully he likes soft buns.

The walk-in access to the pond isn’t visible from my cottage, and by the time I reach it, my pulse is racing as if I’ve just run the hundred-meter sprint. At first, I assume Henry isn’t here yet. Then his head and shoulders break the water’s surface.

In his daily, traditional, buttoned-up shirts and old-timey pants with suspenders, he’s a treat for the eyes. Seeing him wet and glistening, and knowing there’s more of his uncovered body below the gentle ripples of the pond, makes my mouth water.

Standing at the stone steps that descend into the pond, I kick off the pink flip-flops that don’t match my green bikini, then walk down until I’m ankle deep in the water. “These steps are beautiful. They look legitimately vintage.”

“You’re correct, they are very old. They’ve been part of the landscape for generations. My great-grandfather’s design, built by a stonemason in town.”

I know from our many conversations that Henry’s family has owned and lived on this property as far back as the records go. I also know he’s the last of his line, though he hasn’t said much more than that. Maybe his parents are a recent loss, and he’s not ready to talk about it yet. I felt that way about my grandparents when they died.

There’s no railing, just a stone wall built into the bank on either side of the eight steps I can see. After that, the water is too shaded and dark to see what lies beyond.

“I’m guessing there’s a drop-off after this step?” I ask, dipping one foot where the next row of stone would be if there were one.

Henry’s focus shifts from my face and travels down my body, creating a trail of goose bumps, as if his gaze were a caress. “A slight drop, but not deep enough for a jump. Step in and the water will be about to your knees. From there, the grade is noticeable, but not abrupt.”

“Okay.” Lowering one foot, I’m acutely aware of his attention. It’s not the first time he’s looked at me, but it’s the first time while I’ve been nearly naked, and the absence of his usual throaty croaking noises is like a silent blow.

A second crop of bumps rises all over me once both feet are firmly on the pond bottom, the cool water tickling the backs of my knees like gentle lapping kisses. Holding my arms out at my sides, I take small careful steps.

“Too cool for you?” he asks when I give a little shriek as the water reaches my waistline.

“No way, I love it. Adjusting to the temperature is easier when you can just jump in, that’s all. At the old cabin, there was a long wooden dock, and I used to barrel down that thing and dive into the lake.”

“You’ve mentioned your grandparents and the summers at their cabin many times, but always as memories from your youth. You don’t go there anymore?”

With each forward step, the water rises higher up my torso. Now that it’s past the sensitive line of my waist, my body acclimates easily, allowing me to focus on the sensation of the squishy silt between my toes and the man who has come to occupy a good chunk of my thoughts. The only one I’ve ever talked to about my grandparents. The only person who’s ever cared enough to ask questions that aren’t the superficial, get-in-your-pants variety. Though I wouldn’t mind if he did.

“They kept the cabin as long as they could, but had to sell it when I was fifteen. My grandma fell and broke her hip, and after that, the property was too much for them to manage. They sold it and moved to a seniors’ complex in town. I didn’t see them much after that because they only had a small one-bedroom unit, not enough space to house a teenager for all of summer break. They passed while I was at college. First my grandma, then my grandfather, less than two weeks later.”

“You miss them,” he says. A statement, not a question.

“Very much. But they never could bear to be apart, and if either of them had had to live without the other, I know they would’ve been brokenhearted, so I’m glad neither had to exist like that.”

“Sounds like you believe in true love.”

“They made it believable. But I’ve never met another couple I could say that about. Have you?”

“Yes.” Warmth radiates in his voice and smile. “My parents were true mates, as were my grandparents. I’m told that’s how it has always been in my family, though I never met any of the others.”

“True mates,” I say, inching closer. “I’ve never heard anyone use that term.”