Page 31 of On Dry Land

He smirks like the sarcasm pleases him. I swim a few lazy lengths of the pool in the ensuing silence, casually frog kicking my legs and keeping my head above water in case he talks. He doesn’t. Instead, he watches and finishes his drink, ease settling between us like a blanket of fresh snow.

Chapter Twelve

DRYDEN

Spencer, despite his apparent love of walking, is a fish. After leaving Saturday morning, before I’d even woken up to walk his way over to the Thompson property, three miles west of here, he’d come back later that evening filthy and carrying a Tupperware of fresh-baked goods. I’d admonished him for walking instead of asking for a ride, to which he’d replied, “Have a muffin, Dryden,” before bustling off to the cottage. He’d been in the pool less than thirty minutes later, apparently not so tired from the yard work that he couldn’t swim. Every evening since has been the same.

Two of those evenings, I forced myself to remain inside. To push myself back into my routine and settle into bed for a hockey game and an hour of reading. And if I also watched the exterior cameras during intermission to check on the occupant of the pool, it was only to ensure he wasn’t floating face down.

The rest of the evenings, I joined him. I settled back in my lounger and tried to enjoy the view of my yard and the woods pressing against the boundary. I tried not to look at him when he started swimming a lazy freestyle or notice the ropy, thin lines of muscle down his back and in his arms when they lifted above the water. I tried not to stare at his stomach when he flipped around to a backstroke.

And now, hands pressed into the marble island as the water slowly boils behind me, I try not to notice the smile on his face as he strides across the lawn toward the pool. He sees me through the glass and waves, kicking off his shoes and dropping his coat before hopping into the water. Fixing my tea, I carry the mug over to the back door. He saw me and waved, so it would be rude not to at least say hello. In the back of my mind, I wonder when I started caring about that.

“Afternoon,” he greets me the second I’ve got the door open.

“It’s freezing,” I comment, steam rising off the mug in my hand.

“Not in the water, it’s not. You should come in.”

I consider it. I don’t even like to swim, and yet I consider it. Careful, a low, internal voice warns. I need to pull back and distance myself. I need to go back inside and do my own thing. I need to forget about big brown eyes and find good conversation somewhere else, with anyone else. Instead, I sit down on the side of a lounger.

“Any updates?” Spencer asks. I stare out at the trees, not looking at him.

“She’s going back in the water Monday.”

“Really?” In my periphery, I see Spencer swim closer. “And then what?”

“And then Cody and I need to empty the traps that are out. Legally, we are obligated to check them at least once a month.”

“It hasn’t been that long, though, right?”

“No. But we don’t like to push it. The weather is unpredictable this time of year. If we decide not to go Monday, it might be a week or two before the wind dies down enough for us to try again. If the weather is fine, we have to take advantage.”

I bring the tea to my mouth and rest it there, feeling the burn of the mug against my lips. It’s too hot to drink. Spencer is right there, perfectly visible, if I turned my head. I shouldn’t. I spend far too much time looking at him already.

“Rudy doesn’t need my help every day,” he tells me. “I have Monday off.”

“I know.” I’ve been giving him rides to town this week, after all, and he blathers on about his schedule whether I want to hear or not. Which, I do. It doesn’t seem to matter how hard I’m trying to stay away. He’s always right there, and even when I can’t see him, I can feel him. If I were half as smart as I proclaim to be, I’d kick him out and wave him off down the road.

“Can I come to the harbor with you? To film the Maiden?”

“Yes,” I agree, despising that fizzle of happiness in my chest at the thought.

“Your video is ready, by the way. I can show you.”

That gets my attention away from the trees and onto him. His short brown hair is dark and spiky from the water, and he’s close enough for me to see droplets clinging to the fringe of lashes around those pretty doe eyes. A better view than the woods.

“My video?”

“The footage I took when we—you were doing the bridles on the traps. And labeling the buoys and stuff. I added it in with other things so it’s a whole, thirty-minute day-in-the-life-type blog. I’ll show you,” he offers again, a slightly tentative look on his face.

“Now?” I ask, curious despite myself. I don’t have any desire to ruin his livelihood, so no matter what the video contains, I won’t tell him not to post it. Somehow, I know it won’t be anything I need to worry about.

“Oh. Sure, yeah, I can grab my phone. It’s just in the pocket of my coat.”

He plants his hands on the concrete surrounding the pool as though he’s going to push himself out. Sighing, I stand up and wave him back into the water. It’s cold, and he’s wet.

“I’ll get it. Which pocket?”