The Love Haters

Five

THE CAFTAN WAS a slippery slope.

I sensed it from the start, if I’m honest. This will not end well.

Smash cut to me, the next morning, with bed-head hair, standing in my adorable three-hundred-square-foot vintage motel cabin in a baggy LIFE’S A BEACH T-shirt—also from Vitamin Sea—that I’d slept in, engaged in what can only be described as a spaghetti-Western-style standoff with…

A brand-new bathing suit.

Draped very aggressively on a hanger on a peg near the mirror.

I’d caught Beanie before work on FaceTime for an emergency consultation.

“So,” Beanie was saying, mining essential details from the five-minute verbal dump I’d just woken her up with. “You asked this lady about swim lessons, and now she’s forcing you to take a swimming class? This morning? ”

“Kind of.”

A more accurate description might be that she “warmly invited me to join her.” But “forcing” captured some of the vibe, too.

“And she bought you a swimsuit?”

“ Comped me a swimsuit,” I corrected. “As a gift. From her tropics-wear boutique.”

“That was nice of her.”

“Too nice,” I agreed.

Beanie dropped her voice. “Oh, I see. You hate it.”

“I don’t hate it,” I said. “I just hate the way it’s looking at me.”

“How is it”—here she made air quotes—“‘looking at’ you?”

“Like it’s the predator, and I’m the prey.”

“This feels melodramatic,” Beanie said.

“The point is, now I have to put it on .”

“Okay, then,” she said, bracing for impact. “Show me the suit.”

All business, I rotated my phone until the menacing garment was in frame.

Was I expecting validation? Here’s what I got: “What are you talking about?” Beanie demanded. “It’s adorable.”

It had a vintage pinup-girl look: a red-polka-dot one-piece with a halter top and a sweetheart neckline with a short little pleated skirt at the bottom.

If something that barely covers your lady bits can really be called a skirt .

“It’s adorable in theory ,” I said.

“Put it on,” Beanie commanded.

“I don’t want to. That’s the truth. I just really don’t want to. And the class is about to start.”

“Just do it,” Beanie urged.

“The thing is,” I said, “I’ve been staring at it for fifteen minutes, and I can’t seem to make it happen.”

“Why not?” Beanie asked.

“A funny feeling in my chest seems to be holding me frozen.”

“What’s the feeling?”

“I think it’s fear.”

“You’re afraid of a bathing suit ?”

I turned the phone back my way so I could make eye contact and said, “I mean, I don’t think it’s going to come to life and strangle me or anything. I just… don’t want to wear it.”

Beanie gave me a look.

But I stood up for myself. “Don’t act like this is ridiculous.”

Softly, hoping not to hurt my feelings, Beanie said, “It is ridiculous.”

“Hey,” I said, “I don’t need your judgment.”

“I guess I just don’t understand the problem. It’s red. It’s fun. It’s got that cute little sweetheart neckline.”

None of this solved anything.

Beanie went on, “People wear swimsuits all the time. It’s fine.”

“Not for me.”

“But why not?”

“Because…” I had never tried to articulate this before. “Because it feels like being naked.”

“But you’re not naked in a bathing suit,” Beanie protested. “You’re in a bathing suit. All the important stuff is covered.”

“Not for me.”

“What else do you want to cover?”

“You know,” I said, waving my hand. “Just—everything.”

Beanie thought about this. “So there’s some stepmother-based shame there,” she said.

“Definitely.”

“And some self-criticism.”

“For sure.”

“Don’t you think you’re being a little hard on yourself right now?”

“I’m not the only woman in the world with body-image issues,” I said.

“But you might be the only one in a standoff with a bathing suit.”

“You’re not helping.”

“Don’t be one of those women who insists on thinking she’s ugly,” she said.

“I don’t think I’m ugly,” I stated. Then, much quieter and possibly hoping not even to be heard, I followed that with: “But other people might?”

Beanie was incredulous. “What?!”

I wasn’t passing her feminist muster.

“I’m sorry!” I said, seeing her point. “I’d so much rather just march confidently around town, not giving a shit what anybody thinks—and I do ! Mostly! When I’m in jeans! But a bathing suit … It’s like being a knight with no armor. It’s like being a quarterback with no helmet. It’s like being a hermit crab with no shell!” Then I spotted a way to change the subject. “You saw that article, right? How hermit crabs are starting to prefer trash to real shells? They’re using bottle caps and PVC debris. And apparently all that plastic isn’t healthy for them!”

“Don’t change the subject. That adorable swimsuit isn’t trash. And you’re not a hermit crab, by the way.”

“It’s just so vulnerable ,” I said.

But was vulnerable even a vulnerable enough word?

“I didn’t realize you were so hard on yourself,” Beanie said, like she was revising her whole opinion of me.

“I’m not! Usually. Ninety-nine percent of the time I’m completely fine and comfortable and even happy being me. As long as I can keep my clothes on. ”

That was reasonable, right?

But Beanie was sizing me up now. “Doesn’t the level of what you’re feeling right now feel kind of… intense ?”

I wasn’t sure. Did it?

“Maybe it’s more than just issues .” Beanie was nodding now.

Oh, god, she had her diagnosing face on.

Next, she looked almost excited as she said, “Maybe it’s a phobia.”

“Look,” I said, “normally I’m fine. I don’t go anywhere near swimsuits, and I’m fine.”

“A life spent avoiding bathing suits? This really does sound like a phobia, right?”

That sounded a little strong. “It’s not a phobia ,” I said. “It’s a normal female reaction to having an ordinary, imperfect body in a world overrun by Photoshop and AI.”

“Normal for you , maybe.”

But I defended myself. “The point is,” I said, “I’m here for work. I’m here to film a kick-ass promo and save my job. I’m not here for a swimsuit competition! Or to sign up for some kind of Sports Illustrated parade! Or to release my thighs out into the wild!”

But now Beanie was googling. “Question,” she said. “Do you know that it’s crazy to be afraid of a swimsuit?”

“Of course I do!”

“Well,” Beanie said, “at least it’s not psychosis.”

“Beanie!” I pleaded, glancing at the time. “This is serious.”

“I am serious. What you’re describing really sounds like a phobia.” She got quiet for a second. “And I’m just double-checking, but I’m pretty sure the cure for phobias is… yeah. The cure for a phobia is to do the thing you’re afraid of.”

“To do it?”

“Yeah. The fact that you’re afraid to put on the swimsuit means you have to put on the swimsuit.”

I dropped my shoulders. Classic Beanie.

“It’s called exposure therapy,” Beanie went on. “You have to do the scary thing over and over until it’s not scary anymore.”

“But…” I said, trying to make my voice sound reasonable, “I don’t want to.”

I stared at the swimsuit, and it stared back.

“Look,” Beanie went on. “Before, you were just scared. But now you have a diagnosis from the internet. And a higher purpose. Now,” she said, like this changed everything, “it’s a hero’s journey. You are conquering your own long-held fears.”

Beanie waited as long as she could for me to get on board with this new concept.

Finally, she said, “Didn’t you just say this swim class was full of eighty-year-old ladies?”

I had definitely mentioned that somewhere in my opening monologue. “Uh-huh.”

“Problem solved,” Beanie said then. “You’ll have the best-looking thighs there.”

TWO MINUTES LATER, I was stepping one long, naked, imperfect leg and then the other into that godforsaken swimsuit… while I pep-talked myself.

I could do this! This wasn’t so impossible! I might not be good at bathing suits . But I was very good at doing what needed to be done! I was good at achieving goals. Maybe a higher purpose was just what I’d needed all along.

I pulled the suit up, snapped the straps over my shoulders.

Then I wrapped a complimentary beach towel around my waist like a sarong.

And then, with a deep breath of self-encouragement, I took the hibiscus clip Rue had given me, and I clipped it to my hair just above my ear.

Then I put one sparkly flip-flop in front of the other out my cabin door, across the little porch, down the steps, along the walkway, and past the palmetto plants—cheering myself on the whole time—until I arrived at a wood deck near the pool where the ladies were gathering before class as they waited for their lifeguard-slash-swim instructor.

It felt a little bit like an out-of-body experience, but I did it.

Exposure therapy. This was good for me.

And just for the record—and I am not exaggerating here—it was the cutest crew of old ladies I had ever seen in my life. A group I would come to know as The Gals.

I had been so scared to walk out there. I had expected a lion’s den—and instead found myself surrounded by lambs: kind-eyed women with grandma vibes who cooed welcoming greetings as Rue gave me a hug.

They were all smiles and color—decked head to toe in vibrant tropics-wear like a flock of hummingbirds. Hummingbirds who believed color was the answer to everything—and who possibly had a friends-and-family discount at Vitamin Sea. All of them had lost husbands, and—with the exception of Ginger, who was Rue’s friend from childhood—they had all met when Rue taught a journaling class called the Joys of Grief.

That was seven years ago. In the time that followed, the four of them became a tight group—traveling, shopping, going to matinees—and one by one they’d all wound up moving to Rue’s cottages. Theirs were lined up side by side, and they cooked group dinners, often grilling outside when the weather was fine, and always chatting with other Starlite guests by the pool.

“Half retirement home, half resort” was how Rue had described it yesterday. A little living-your-best-life miracle.

Rue led the introductions with basic details to get us started: Childhood friend Ginger, her red hair faded to blonde in a sensible bob, was a retired prosecutor. Benita, who immigrated to the keys from Argentina with her husband, had run a restaurant for thirty years before passing it on to her kids. Nadine, originally from Jamaica, was a librarian who read a hundred novels a year and chose all the books for the Starlite book club. Not to mention Rue herself, in a hot-pink one-piece that matched today’s glasses, draped in a sheer floral cover-up that fluttered in the wind.

A heck of a lineup.

Here they were: ready to swim.

It was such a relief. I’d thought I couldn’t do it—but here I was, doing it. And it wasn’t so bad. Maybe I’d shock the hell out of myself by turning out to love it, I thought.

Until I saw Rue reach up to wave at someone.

I followed her smile, and then I saw, unlatching the picket-fence gate…

Hutch.

The same Hutch from yesterday.

The love hater himself. And also the guy with the saddest eyes I’d ever seen.

Looking very much like he might be… our swim instructor.

I looked around in panic. Because Hutch the rescue swimmer was the one person in Key West who I couldn’t take swim lessons from.

Beyond how embarrassing it is to be near a person that beautiful when you are feeling the exact opposite, and beyond the weirdness of being not-that-far-from-naked in front of a person you’re about to work with in a professional capacity…

Hutch couldn’t know that I didn’t know how to swim.

Because I’d omitted that to get the job he didn’t even know I had.

It was bad on so many levels. But especially: once Hutch knew I was making the video promo, he could probably get me fired. For the lying, if nothing else.

Given all the secrecy around my taking Cole’s place, it wasn’t hard to intuit that Hutch might not be too thrilled to find out I was his new videographer.

Was there a way to escape?

Because the less he knew about me, the better.

“Morning, ladies,” Hutch called.

Today, I got a good wide-shot gander at him. Yes: he was the perfect amount of tall. And wearing board shorts, and flip-flops… and nothing else. Also, and I’m not exaggerating: a specimen of human perfection.

But in a normal way—if that’s possible?

Like a person who just happens to really put his body to very good use.

His muscles were solid. His calf muscles were—I don’t know—like something out of an anatomy textbook? I would swear he’d been sculpted out of marble by some very attentive ancient Greek if his skin tone wasn’t so… buttery? As if he’d been baked to perfection in some mouthwatering oven?

I shook my head to reset. This guy was my job. Get it together!

But I hadn’t even adjusted to the visual of Hutch himself before I got another shock.

Hutch was followed through the gate by the most enormous horse-sized dog I’d ever seen.

“Hutch!” the ladies all started calling. “Come meet your new student!”

What were the options again? Fight, flight, or freeze?

Flight would have been a great option. Fight could also have worked in a pinch.

But I must have been a herd animal in a former life, because—once again—I froze.

I froze hard.

No method acting required today. I was a mannequin.

What was happening? I felt like I’d been tricked. I never would have signed up for any class within a hundred miles of here if I’d known Puppy Love was the instructor!

And yet, here we were.

Mentally, I braced for impact.

At some point, this sea of old ladies was going to part, and he was going to behold the sight of me—and I’ll just pause here to cry a little bit— in a bathing suit .

I blew a mental kiss to my beach towel for being the last thing standing between me and utter despair.

I don’t actually know how to put into words what I was afraid of in that moment. I didn’t really think that this man was going to do anything weird when he saw me. He wasn’t going to slap his hands over his eyes like he’d just seen a cyclops, or bend over and start retching, or turn and run screaming from the pool.

He was a rescue swimmer! For a living! And also, apparently, a swim instructor for eighty-year-olds. He’d seen the human form in plenty— plenty —of variations.

What was I really afraid of?

If I’m really honest… if I truly think about it… I think it was just the idea that he—or, honestly, anybody—might see me the way my stepmother had. That he might encounter me out in the open, so exposed, with so little left to the imagination… and find me… unappealing.

Or any of a whole tasting plate of other words starting with un : Unattractive. Uninviting. Unsalvageable. Unpleasant. Unacceptable. Unlovable.

This was it. This was the phobia.

Being exposed, in plain daylight, with nowhere to hide—and then being… rejected. By anyone. Even a stranger.

A beautiful stranger in this case, but still.

I wasn’t afraid of bathing suits . I was afraid of being seen .

I’d spent my whole life avoiding moments like this. And here it was, happening.

I thought I might die. And then I was disappointed when I didn’t.

Because here’s the twist. Things didn’t quite play out as expected.

The sea of old ladies did part, and I was left standing alone, totally defenseless, with next to nothing on, my collarbones and shoulders and upper arms exposed to the world, but before Hutch could even look up to take in the sight of me…

His Clydesdale-sized dog beheld me first. And then it broke into a gallop.

Right for me. Toward me. At me.

I’m fond of dogs. I’m a dog person.

But if I thought just standing around in a bathing suit was scary—I needed a few reminders about fear. This beast launched itself —lips flapping, ears undulating, teeth unveiled, giant paws galumphing—across the wooden deck and straight at its target.

Me.

There wasn’t time to move or even duck. It happened so fast, we all just stared. This thing hurtled itself toward me—and the next thing I knew, we were both skidding across the wooden deck and sliding to a stop in a heap.

Leaving my beloved beach towel limp and lifeless, many feet behind me.

Not to mention my hibiscus hair clip.

The dog—unfazed—was up on its feet in no time, licking my face while I tried to adjust to the stinging scrape on the back of my leg. Or maybe it was my hip. Or maybe my butt. Most likely all three. Is there a term for that place on the outer back of your thigh-hip-butt?

The only word that came to mind was haunch .

Did humans even have haunches?

One thing was for sure. It was a real body part—and it was now riddled with splinters.

Hutch was there in seconds, helping me back up and hoisting me to my feet. “I’m so sorry,” he said in astonishment. Looking down into my face with those dark, melancholy eyes and an undeniable concerned frown.

Dazed, I thought of Cole saying that frowning was Hutch’s favorite hobby.

So on-brand.

But Hutch was still apologizing. “He never runs to anyone but me.”

“Did he think I was going to catch him?” I asked, now frowning myself.

“He’s a Great Dane,” Hutch said, “but he thinks he’s a chihuahua.”

From all the women clucking scoldingly at the dog, I gathered his name was either “George” or “Bailey.” Or both.

“Where does it hurt?” Hutch asked.

“It’s fine,” I insisted, my whole back quadrant stinging like fire. “It’s fine.”

But to no avail. Hutch was now walking me and my swimsuit over to a seating area so he could—and I’m just as horrified to say this as you must be to hear it— examine my wound .

“Oh, no. There’s no need for this,” I said as Hutch bent me forward, ass out, over a table.

“We’re going to need some tweezers,” I heard him say to someone.

“I’m really okay,” I protested again, just as Ginger showed up with a pool chair cushion for me to lean over.

“Let him help you, sweetie,” Benita said. “He knows what he’s doing.”

Now Hutch was pulling up a footstool to sit on so he could lean in close and take a good gander at what—fine, let’s call a haunch a haunch—could only be classified as a large section of my butt .

Next, Rue showed up with tweezers and a first-aid kit for Hutch—and a glass of champagne for me.

“For the pain,” she said, conspiratorially, as she patted me on the shoulder.

I kicked it back like an old-timey soldier downing whiskey before a post-battle amputation.

The crowd sighed and made wincing sounds as they got in close to look.

“How bad is it?” I finally asked.

“You look like a cactus,” Benita said.

“Should someone take a picture and text it to you?” Ginger asked.

“Oh, god, please— no one ever do that,” I begged.

“It’s just a few splinters,” Hutch said.

“How many?” I demanded.

“Forty?” he guessed. “Fifty?”

That was not the definition of a few , but okay.

Then I heard his voice shift as he called to the class.

“Ladies, why don’t you get started without me? We’re gonna be here awhile.”

“You don’t have to do this!” I protested from my position over the cushion. “I can do it myself.”

“Unless you’re a contortionist,” Hutch said, “I really don’t think you can.”

“Rue can do it!” I insisted then. “Right, Rue?”

But Rue was already in the pool. “I’d love to, sweetheart,” she said, “but I’m squeamish.”

Defeated, I collapsed over the cushion.

“Don’t worry!” Nadine called. “He’s not a big talker, but he’s great at first aid!”

Down below, under the table, the beast who had done this to me was settling into a lion’s pose like nothing had happened.

For just a millisecond there, I’d thought that dog had saved me. If he had stopped just a bit shorter, I could have hidden fully behind his gargantuan torso until it was time to slip into the pool. He could have been my salvation.

But now, of course, as my precious beach towel lay forgotten on the deck like a dead jellyfish, and as Hutch leaned in so close to peer at my backside that I could feel his breath brushing my skin , it was clear this dog was the opposite. He’d shoved me out of the frying pan and into the hellfires of deepest humiliation.

All the dread I’d felt for how this morning would play out?

I should’ve doubled it.

Wait. Tripled.

The ladies set about splashing in the pool, and Hutch got to work on the splinters, leaning against my lower back for support.

A line from one of my favorite movies went through my head: “I’m tempted to marry him so I can tell people how we met.”

I felt little pinches from the tweezers and the near constant brushing of his fingers as he felt for the edges. Hutch’s face, I swear to god, was six inches from my butt the whole time.

If that.

“You were in the shop yesterday,” Hutch said then, striking up a conversation in that let’s-pretend-this-isn’t-weird way the gynecologist does when she busts out the salad tongs.

“Yes,” I said, playing along.

“You were wearing one of Rue’s… garments.”

Well, that was thoughtful. An opportunity for me to say, “My regular clothes were in the wash.”

“You looked like an Orange Crush.”

Was he teasing me? “Is that a compliment?”

“I guess that depends.”

“On?”

“On if you like Orange Crush.”

So this was Hutch. Now that we were meeting—if you can call a man pulling splinters out of your nether regions a meeting —I found myself reviewing Cole’s prep info on his brother. According to Cole, Hutch was serious, and never joked around, and hardly ever talked. He was a former Eagle Scout, a former high school class president, the epitome of a responsible adult, and a total alpha.

Cole had warned me that nothing about Hutch was in any way fun .

Yet here he was: teasing me a little.

Maybe he sensed my panic. Or maybe he had some of his own.

“I’m truly sorry about all this,” he said next. “I’ve honestly never seen my dog do anything like that. And I’ve had him over a year.”

I looked down at the dog, now resting his head on his paws, under the table.

“Is his name George?” I asked, studying him. “Or Bailey?”

“Both,” Hutch said. “It’s George Bailey.”

“Like in the movie? It’s a Wonderful Life ?”

“Exactly,” Hutch said, like not everybody knew that reference. “He’s a rescue,” he added then.

“You rescued him and named him after Jimmy Stewart?”

Hutch shifted position to get a better angle. “He was part of a puppy mill, so he didn’t even have a name at first. The puppy mill was raided, and they pulled out sixty-seven dogs. He was two years old, and he’d never been outside. He’d spent his whole life in a cage.”

“Oh, god,” I said, my heart squeezing.

“Nobody wanted him,” Hutch went on, “because he was so big, and he had this skin condition that kind of looked like leprosy. Also, he’d never been socialized—and he was afraid of people. With a dog this big, that’s never a good thing.”

“But he looks great now,” I said. “He could be a show dog!”

“They wanted to put him down. They thought he was hopeless.”

“But you didn’t?”

“I just had this feeling about him,” Hutch said. “And I’m pretty good with dogs.”

“You know,” I said, “even when he was running right at me, even as huge as he is—he never looked scary. The moment was scary—but the dog… seemed happy.”

“I think he is happy now,” Hutch said. “His paws are all healed up from the wire floor of the cage—though there’s still some scarring. His coat’s all grown back. The heartworms weren’t too bad—and they’re treated now. And honestly, it wasn’t that hard to socialize him. I really think, all that time, he was just waiting for someone to love.”

Again—I’ll note that Hutch was surprisingly chatty for a person who was “not a big talker.”

Did I have the right guy? Did Cole ?

I felt this conversation shifting my perspective on my own current suffering in real time. The gorgeous, velvet-eared dog resting under the table had spent two years alone in a cage. Without ever going outside. Or getting petted. Or having a treat. Or getting to play.

Compared to that, my personal morning’s humiliation didn’t seem so bad.

“When I first brought him out of the rescue shelter,” Hutch said, “he had never seen grass before. He was scared of it. He’d touch it with a paw and then back up to the sidewalk.”

“Is he still scared?”

“No. Now he rolls and rolls in it. It just took some time. And some exposure therapy.”

Exposure therapy. Quite the theme today.

I watched George Bailey scratch his ear with one of his paws.

“So he’s living the good life now,” I said.

“Yeah. That’s the idea. He plays in the park, and basks in the sun, and eats like a king. And somehow I’ve wound up letting him sleep in my bed, too. Or maybe it’s more accurate to say he lets me sleep in his.”

“This is the happiest happy ending I’ve ever heard of.”

“The only thing I haven’t been able to solve is his fear of thunder.”

George Bailey shifted to lie on his side. “He’s afraid of thunder?” I asked.

“It’s called brontophobia,” Hutch said. “It’s common in dogs.”

Newly diagnosed with a few phobias myself, I got it.

“Poor guy,” I said.

“Yeah,” Hutch said. “He’s fine with rain . It’s just thunder—something about the rumble. He starts shaking and panting, and then he has to come climb on top of me.”

“Does that help?”

“Not really.”

“Is there—a medication for it?”

“Yeah, there’s doggie Xanax. But he can’t take it.”

“Can’t? Or won’t?”

“Both, actually. The first time he took it, he threw up all over the place. Every time I’ve tried again since—in case that was a fluke—he refuses.”

“He refuses?”

“If I try to hide a pill in a treat, he spits out the pill. And if I bury it in a pile of dog food, I’ll find the whole plate licked clean with an untouched, pristine pill sitting right in the middle. They have pill shooters for dogs—but he won’t let me near him with it.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. It’s pretty hard to make a Great Dane do anything he doesn’t want to do.”

“So he just panics until the thunder stops? You can’t do anything for him?”

“I do lots of things for him. They don’t help, but I do them anyway. I hum. I pet him. I’ve got a snug vest to put him in that’s supposed to be comforting. Mostly, I just spend hours trying to explain that the thunder can’t hurt us. But he never believes me.”

“He’s lucky to have you,” I said.

“I’m lucky to have him ,” Hutch said.

“Maybe you both can call it even.”

FIVE MILLION HOURS later, as Hutch finished pulling out the last of the splinters—and was dabbing antiseptic all over the scrapes—The Gals finished their swim and came over to tease him, gathering in a semicircle around my upturned butt like they were contemplating a piece of art.

“This is quite a first date,” Nadine said.

“It’s not a date,” Benita corrected. “It’s a medical emergency.”

“Aren’t they so adorable together?” Ginger asked The Gals.

Coos and murmurs all around.

“That’s more talking than I’ve seen Hutch do in all the time I’ve known him,” Benita said then.

“What were you two chatting about?” Nadine wanted to know.

I turned back to look at Hutch, and I realized he was done. He’d turned his attention to putting away the supplies.

I felt like I needed to stand up for him. “He was apologizing for George Bailey,” I said, just as Rue showed up nearby—now in a post-swim cover-up with a wide straw hat.

“Will she live?” Rue asked.

Undecided.

“Probably,” Hutch answered.

“Good,” Rue said. “Because she still needs her swim lesson.”

Shit. Busted.

“Was she… here for the swim lesson?” Hutch asked.

I wanted to say No , but of course the answer was yes. And Rue knew that.

This is the trouble with lying, I guess.

“She doesn’t know how to swim,” Rue told Hutch then. “Can you imagine? On vacation in the keys and hasn’t owned a bathing suit since middle school.”

Oh, god. I’d overshared.

That’s when Benita picked up my towel, and the little hibiscus hair clip, and came over to me. She set the clip on the table and wrapped the towel around my shoulders. It was bigger than I remembered, and I sank into it so gratefully—just as Rue said to Hutch, blithely spilling all my secrets, “She needs to learn to swim before Monday. Could you give her some private lessons?”

How did she make private lessons sound so provocative?

“I’m pretty busy,” Hutch answered, glancing in my direction.

As he said it, George Bailey appeared by my side and then leaned against me like he was mooring to a dock. I stroked his head.

Maybe this whole splinters-in-the-haunch situation was a blessing of sorts. Maybe it would help with my swimsuit phobia. I mean, how hard could it be to work with this guy now? He’d seen more of me, at this point, than I’d seen of myself.

“You need to learn to swim before Monday ?” Hutch asked.

It was Friday.

“I just need a refresher course,” I said, fully lying. “I’m a little rusty.”

Hutch frowned in earnest.

“I don’t need to win any gold medals,” I went on, quoting Beanie. “I just need to beef up my dog paddle.”

“I’m not sure that’s enough time,” Hutch said, “even for a dog paddle.”

“I’ll take anything,” I said. Anything was better than nothing, right? “Whatever I can learn before Monday, I’ll take it.”

But he was shaking his head. “I’m busy this weekend.”

But, as I thought about it, it didn’t even have to be that soon. I started at the air station on Monday, but the first few days were always just getting the lay of the land. “Actually even a couple days after Monday could work.”

Hutch kept his serious expression. “I guess we can manage something.”

“Thank you,” I said. “And thank you,” I added then, “for pulling all those splinters out of my ass.”

Hutch stifled a smile and said, “Anytime.”