Chapter 4 – Harley
K ole was a natural in the water. He showed no fear and did every exercise I suggested. In fact, I pushed myself, feeling the rising challenge to go another rep or another minute longer than I instructed just because the look in his eye dared me.
It certainly wasn’t anything he said that brought out the competitive side of me. The man barely spoke. And it was almost impossible to read his stony expression, as if he was trying to hide something.
Which was so at odds with the unguarded moments we’d already shared. I wanted nothing more than to peel back the exterior and find the emotions I sensed rolling about beneath.
After working on some basic strokes, which Kole performed—albeit robotically and unnaturally—I felt his gaze on me as I explained breathing with the freestyle stroke. When I turned to meet his stare, my heart stilled. The intensity there was dark and consuming. It threatened to pull me under, like an anchor. But I was willing to let it steal the very air out of my lungs if I could only feel it.
“Show me?” he offered.
The air crackled with electricity, and when his brow arched, my skin prickled with the need to prove him right. How could he pack so much into such a short, clipped statement? Clambering up the ladder we’d attached to the end of the dock, I stretched my shoulder. The old strain wasn’t bad, despite how many drills I was putting it through.
Looking at the buoy, I tuned everything out—which was quite the feat. I should receive the gold medal just for that! Because behind me loomed a dripping, virile specimen who was doing things to me.
The beeps counted down in my head, the faraway horn blared, and I dove. My whole body worked in a tight wave under the surface as I maximized distance. When the momentum tapered, I emerged to start the freestyle stroke, kicks tight flutters and arms windmilling overhead. I only took air every second rotation of my arms. The buoy was in my line of sight, while my chin stayed in the optimal position. Granted, I should have had goggles, but I managed.
My palm arched out of the water to tap the buoy. I shifted less gracefully than I would have liked, but there was no wall to push against as I rotated. After a graceless stroke, I was back on track. My muscles burned. The sting was nothing short of delicious. Each breath was a controlled gasp. The cool, green water sloshed over me as I carved a relentless path through it.
And then I was clinging to the dock.
Adrenaline surged through every fiber of my being. It had to account for the shake in my limbs as I climbed from the water.
It certainly wasn’t the fire blazing deep in those stormy depths, nor the thumping pulse in his hard-clenched jaw. Was his nose flaring? And why did he fist his hands at his side?
“Your turn!” I panted, unable to keep back a smirk.
Maybe it wasn’t smart to taunt the rich man paying me an insane amount for swimming lessons, but I couldn’t stop it.
Time pulsed silently between us until the alarm on my phone told me it was seven. I had to leave.
The corner of his mouth twitched. Whatever emotions he struggled to express, he was doing a damn fine job of holding them back.
The rough bass of his voice shot a bolt of heat scorching through my body. “Until next time, Harley.”
With that, he turned and stalked away.
“Okay, Mr. Grumpy Pants,” I mouthed to his broad, ink-stained back.
I spent a heartbeat too long memorizing the art he wore, before jumping into grandpa’s speedboat and starting the engine. Patting my face with the towel, I noted the cream and green bill tucked in the cupholder.
Was it the easiest hundred dollars? Hardly.
I snorted.
But was it wholly unpleasant?
I tipped my head back and forth in consideration as I puttered away from the dock and out of the no-wake-zone. Once in the open water, I floored the throttle, giving the ’78 Johnson everything she had.
The boat seemed to fly over the surface, hopping over the small waves.
I wonder if he’s ever been tubing? The random thought had me smiling as I pulled up to our dock. The way my more adventurous cousins and I whipped around the lake—especially when our German cousin or Minnesota cousins came to visit—was damn near suicidal. I rotated my shoulder, letting the hazy warm memories of summers past float through my mind.
There was enough time to clean up before I had to leave, but I still scrambled up the steep staircase carved up the shore. Sitting high and overlooking Red Lake, the farmhouse was one of the last of its kind on the lake. Most of the original farms that settled this area had been converted into cabins or mansions, built on strips of property so close that a boy could piss into the neighbor’s windows. Not that they probably tried. Had I been a boy, I would have tried. Why else would a builder put a house that close to the next one over? To pack as many houses onto the lake as possible? That was what they claimed. Meanwhile, our family had acres of land, and enough lakeshore to make this span of the water our own.
For decades, offers for their property poured into my grandparents’ mailbox. But here we were, proud to be the fourth generation living off our family’s land. The three-story house was built into the hill, so I let myself into the basement through the sliding glass door. It smelled damp and sweaty down here. The three boy cousins who worked the farm with grandpa lived on this level. Besides their bedrooms, they had a game room and a sprawling living room with a full bar set up in the corner. It was their own apartment of sorts.
I darted up the stairs, noting that grandma was in the kitchen on the phone, and grateful for the escape to the third floor where I had one of the two rooms across from the master suite. While I shared a hall bathroom with any guests who came to visit, it didn’t stink like boy up here.
“Shit,” I breathed, glancing at the clock on my nightstand. I hadn’t budgeted enough time for a shower. While there was rarely swimmer’s itch, especially this early in the summer, I would have lake hair all day. I managed to brush it into a high pony, dab on some makeup, and change in exactly seven minutes.
With a spritz of body spray, I threw the container into my tote with the change of uniform for the Landing tonight. It would be a long day straight from the clinic to the bar.
As I spun around the banister and snatched my boots, my grandma padded over. “That was Livia Clarkson.”
The supple, handstitched leather was worn to fit my feet and far more comfortable to spend the entire day wearing than any sneaker. I was a working gal, and these were my preferred footwear. I didn’t think that would ever change.
“She’s back north for the summer?” I asked out of politeness, but I did not have time for the local gossip.
“Her grandson is single, you know,” Grandma commented, not bothering to hide her trail of thought.
I pinned her with a look, hand on the door. “No, Gran. Absolutely not. He was a douche in high school and during his first marriage, and that hasn’t changed with his divorce.”
“Watch your language.”
“Sorry, Gran.” I grabbed my keys and moved out the door.
“It’s not natural, you working two jobs to run away from the farm to more college!” My grandma threw her hands in the air as she followed me out the front door.
A groan choked from my throat. “We’ve been over this.”
While my grandparents might protest that I was working too hard, the root of the matter was that they didn’t think Chicago was safe. Especially for a lone female. So they badgered me about the other aspects of my leaving.
“If you don’t like being a technician—which is a fine job by the way—there’s plenty of work to keep this farm running. What you need is to marry and settle down, not chase some expensive, unrealistic dream—”
“Grandma,” I snapped. “You were proud of me when I said I was going back to school. Don’t forget that!”
“I was—I am! But you’re being ridiculous. Leaving us during the harvest, not to mention being absent all summer. It’s not right, you hear?”
My grandfather slammed the hood of my car. He held a half-empty jug of windshield wiper fluid in his hand. “I topped you off, Harley.”
“Thanks,” I breathed, crossing my fingers that he didn’t join in the conversation.
He didn’t. He merely chucked my chin and wished me a good day as he ambled back to the attached car garage where we kept my grandma’s nice sedan.
“Harley, didn’t you hear me?” My grandma insisted.
“I have to go.” I ripped open the door of my Volkswagen.
“You’re being ridiculous,” Granny insisted, putting her hands on her hips. “And Kayla told me about your deal with the new owners of the McTavish place. What are you thinking? Swimming lessons? With a football player?”
This is the woman who took you in and raised you. I squeezed my eyes closed and took deep breaths. “We’ll talk more tonight, Gran. I promise.”
She continued to rattle off opinions on my choices as I cranked the Passat on, put it in gear, and backed out of the drive. I gave her a wave and peeled away. It took the entire fifteen-minute drive to the veterinary clinic to calm myself down. My grandmother didn’t mean to tear into me. But the choices I made were so foreign to someone like her who’d lived in the same area her entire life. Lifting my gaze to the Staff of Asclepius, the snake wrapping around it, and the letter V, I sighed. Was I crazy to want to be a vet? The biggest changes would Doctor in front of my name, a fancy degree to hang on the wall, more work, and a bit more money. That was what my grandparents saw. To me? It was the journey. Becoming a veterinarian was a goal, something to accomplish.
“Like swimming,” I whispered. A smile spread over my lips. The gold medal wasn’t the prize. It was the hours of practice, the hard work. And knowing I could swim across the damn lake with ease, whereas no one else around here could say the same.
“I’ll be a doctor,” I promised myself. “No one in my family has ever reached so high.”
Cutting the engine, I hurried into work, instantly relaxing as the routine of prep, patients, and cleanup consumed my day.