Chapter 23
ONE GORGEOUS MERMAID
Zane climbed out of the Uber into the rain, much too late on Saturday night, and didn’t wince. If he was sore, it was nothing a bit of pool time and a massage wouldn’t fix.
Why had he headed straight over here, instead of doing the reasonable thing and getting a night of sleep in the team hotel first?
Because this way, he’d be able to wake up with the whanau in the morning.
And, of course, Skylar’s whanau as well.
It wasn’t because he needed them. It was because they needed him.
One car in the driveway, though, and it wasn’t the one Nan had hired. It was the people-mover he’d hired for Skylar. What the hell?
He was already frowning when he entered the quiet house. A few lamps left on, the hum of refrigerator and heat pump, the patter of rain on a metal roof. Everybody was in bed. Well, of course they were. He headed to the kitchen for a cup of tea, and …
The lights in the pool were on, the water moving in ripples.
A shape appeared. A woman, swimming a bit lazily.
As he watched, she dove under the water and glided along down there, her hair streaming out behind her.
Pale body, pale hair. She gave a sudden flurry of dolphin kicks, then, and her upper body broke the surface.
Mermaid. Except that it wasn’t. It was Skylar, swimming in his pool.
He forgot about the tea. He was opening the ranch sliders and stepping outside. Under cover, but just beyond, the rain slanted down. Skylar turned a circle in the water, face turned to the sky as if she welcomed the rain. Not cautious. Not controlled. Reveling.
Her togs weren’t what he’d imagined. A tank, he’d thought, the kind mums wore. But it was a bikini instead, pale pink against the blue water. Nearly the color of her skin. Almost as if she were naked.
He didn’t think. He stripped off his track suit and T-shirt and dropped straight into the water.
She noticed that, anyway. She bobbed to the surface, treaded water, and said, an edge of fear in her voice, “Who’s there?”
Oh. Dark. Rain. He swam closer through the slanting rain and said, “Zane.”
“Zane?” Her hand went up to sweep back her hair. “How? How are you back so soon?”
“Couldn’t wait. Want to swim?”
“Yes,” she said, and smiled. It was a glorious smile, like a sunrise, with no caution in it at all. “I’ve been feeling so much like a mermaid, out here in the rain. It’s so good. Just don’t ask me to race.”
He said, “I was thinking that. The mermaid. Your hair and all. Gorgeous, I thought. And how much you were enjoying it.”
She didn’t say, I should have pulled it back so it won’t clog the filter, or whatever a conscientious woman like her would normally say. She didn’t talk about the match, either. She just turned onto her side and stroked through the water, pale arms and legs gleaming.
He was a goal-oriented man, and a competitive one. When he jumped into a pool, he swam hard and efficiently, and then he got out. Tonight, he stretched onto his side beside her and took it slow.
Gliding through the water, the raindrops hitting his face, dotting the surface.
She dove under again, and so did he. All the way to the bottom, then swimming along the sloping surface until they emerged at the other end, where she turned a somersault in the water before breaking the surface again, her teeth gleaming in a smile.
He did a barrel roll, then another one, and she was laughing and doing it herself, and then they were both playing.
Porpoising through the water in a butterfly stroke, because why not?
Flipping onto their backs and swimming blind, gasping as the rain hit them.
Five minutes, then ten, as the soreness eased and his brain waves slowed, and life was only this.
Only gliding through the water, feeling its resistance and the way it parted and flowed around you.
How could something you could barely see have such weight?
Finally, they were floating on their backs beside each other, their hands and feet fluttering, and she said, “I’m imagining that this water is something thicker, because that’s how it feels. Like swimming in molten wax.”
“Mm,” he said. “I was just thinking the same.”
“Do you want to get out?” she asked. Sounding lazy. Sounding relaxed.
“No,” he said, and that was all.
She reached out and touched his hand. Just a brush, but when he turned his hand and took hers, she didn’t pull away. They floated on, connected only by their hands, a current running between them. A contentment in his veins, like that warm wax she’d talked about.
At last, she spoke. She didn’t say, The kids are fine. She said, “You were strong tonight. I liked watching you.” He hummed, and she said, “How does it feel to be so much in your body? I’ve always wondered.”
He considered. “Dunno. I always have been. About like this, maybe. Messages going between your body and your brain and back again. You’re not thinking, or not exactly. The messages are just there.”
“It must be powerful.”
“It is. It’s giving your all. Being in the moment so fully, you can’t see anything else.”
He thought she sighed, but then she said, “We should get out. A little cold when you stop swimming.”
He climbed out behind her, and they both grabbed towels. She laughed and turned her face to the sky, then shivered. “Inside, I think. Cup of tea?”
“Absolutely.”
In the kitchen again, she went to the jug, but he said, “I’ve got it. Go get changed. Best part of being cold is getting warm again.”
“It’ll be the second time you’ve done that tonight,” she said. “It looked so wet out there on the paddock. How were you all not stamping and shivering for two hours?”
“Adrenaline. Movement. When you’re standing about afterwards, yeh, it can get cold.”
“When they’re asking you all those questions,” she said, “and you’re giving your unsatisfactory answers.” Teasing again, a light in the green eyes, leaning up against the kitchen bench with that towel wrapped around her.
He laughed. “You remember that, eh.” Looking out the tea bags and dropping them into mugs.
“Yes.” She got serious now. “I didn’t know you’d be acting skipper. Or leading the haka.”
“It happens sometimes. Both things, though usually not together. The haka because I’m Maori, of course.”
“And a leader,” she said. “With all that mana.”
How good did that feel to hear from her? He said, “Because I’m in the leadership group. It’s always …”
“Always what?”
“An honor.” It sounded stupid, but it was the truth. “There are bigger honors, I’m sure, but none I’ve ever felt.”
“Yes,” she said quietly. “I imagine it is.” Then shivered again. “I’m going to take the world’s fastest shower, then change. Wait for me?”
“Absolutely,” he said again. “Take your time.”
She didn’t think, What am I doing? She didn’t second-guess herself at all. She was tired of it, maybe, or maybe she’d just enjoyed that too much. It had felt like her mind was touching his. Or something deeper. Her heart? Her soul? Was that even possible?
A quick shower, some product scrunched into her damp curls, then her PJs and dressing gown again, and she was down the stairs to the enormous kitchen, where Zane sat at the breakfast bar in his black tracksuit with its silver fern, his feet bare, his hair rumpled and face unshaven, with two mugs of tea in front of him.
Domestic, and … not, because he’d never be a domesticated animal.
She slid in next to him and took her mug, and he asked, “Warmer?”
She smiled—slowly, because she was so relaxed—and said, “So much warmer.” She wrapped her two hands around the mug and enjoyed that, too.
“Does your hair do that naturally?” he asked.
“Do what?”
“Curl the way it does. It looks like you’d have to curl it around your finger to make that happen.” He put up a hand, then hesitated. “May I?”
“Uh … sure.” Her heart was beating faster, her breath coming harder. He touched one of the curls that were already springing up, then turned his hand. He was wrapping his fingers around a curl, then. “It feels alive,” he said.
She couldn’t answer. How could you, with a man’s hand in your hair like that? Finally, as the moment dragged out, she said, “You didn’t shave again. Do you do that on purpose for the match? To look tougher?”
He frowned, and now, she put a hand on his cheek, rough with dark scruff. His eyes on hers, and he said, “Yes. Probably.”
“Ah,” she said, and it was a sigh. “It works.”
Now he was the one not answering. That was probably because he was kissing her. His mouth gentle on hers, his strength held back. Her hand went to his shoulder, and she was hanging on. His hand on her face, and his lips on hers. His were cool from the water, but they were burning her all the same.
She wasn’t sure how long they sat there, perched on those stools, kissing. Barely touching, and feeling so much. She was drowning in it, and then he stopped, rested his forehead against hers, laughed a little, and said, “Not doing so well on our non-involvement, eh.”
“Uh … no.” She should pull away. She should sit up.
She had exactly zero desire to do either.
Instead, she rubbed a cheek over his, reveling in the roughness.
She put a hand on his face again, because she loved doing that, and kissed his neck, there where the scruff ended and the smooth skin began.
He shuddered under her touch, and that was another hot stab of excitement.
Arms around each other now, and the kiss was hotter. Wilder. He had a hand on her lower back, pulling her into him, and she wanted to get closer, but …
“Dad!”
Oh, bloody hell.