Chapter 39
Harper
How deep is he going to freedive?
I stare into the depths of the fifty meters of Olympic-grade perfection. Eight lanes, black lines on the bottom stretching the length. The water is that particular blue-green of heavily chlorinated pools all the way to the bottom.
Above, the roof sweeps overhead in those dramatic curves. Timber and steel beams creating a wave pattern that mirrors the water below. Massive windows along both sides flood the space with natural light.
When the sun breaks through, it turns the water into something almost magical, light dancing across the surface.
I’m wearing my swimsuit and I'm in the shallow end. I’ve done a few lazy laps across the breadth. But I’m preoccupied with watching out for James. Above me, the spectators’ gallery with rows of seats rises along one side of the pool.
In the other corner of the shallow end, there’s a parent watching their kid's swim practice, a coach with a clipboard timing his student. A couple more serious swimmers are doing laps.
Then James walks onto the pool deck. My gaze finds him immediately. He’s wearing speedos which cling to his lean hips and shows off the bulge at his crotch. Which is massive.
His big ego and innate ability to command is justified.
And then, there’s his sculpted physique. He could have been drawn by an artist; that’s how pronounced his six-pack abs are. Before him, I’ve only ever seen models with such musculature.
Only James is far more alive, more real, more vital.
Earlier, I noticed the scars across his chest and the mottled patch on his shoulder that must have come from a bullet strike. I wasn't able to pay attention to them.
I can now.
My gaze traces the marks with curiosity.
They’re from his time as a Marine. The thought of what he must have endured to earn them fills me with a strange sense of awe.
They only deepen his appeal.
They are proof that he once put his life on the line for something greater than himself.
And somehow, that makes him even more irresistible.
Then, there are the tattoos on his chest.
One consists of numbers which look like dates? Or they could be coordinates.
There’s also a star, the North Star by the looks of it, a compass, an anchor and chain. And a gray wolf.
With soulful eyes.
Which reminds me of him. James in a speedo is almost as awe-inspiring as James, the chef, in his element in the kitchen.
His powerful thighs propel him forward.
He’s also wearing a nose clip, and what I take to be a diver’s watch around his wrist. That’s it. No goggles or fins, or any other gear which, for some reason, I thought free divers would use.
He nods in my direction, then heads for the deep end, which is currently empty. He waits there, motionless, arms tucked at his sides. He’s so still, he could be a beautiful statue in a museum. His concentration is complete. Then, as if listening to an inner start signal, he dives into the pool.
There’s a flash of his legs, and he disappears under the surface.
I’m not a strong swimmer, so I head as close to the deep end as I dare, so I can watch without getting in the way. The water is clear enough for me to see his body arrow down, arms outstretched in front, legs together and narrow.
I’m wearing a waterproof watch, so I time him.
One second. Five. Ten.
The water is still, undisturbed except for the ripples from his entry.
Fifteen seconds. Twenty.
I swallow. Thirty seconds. Forty-five.
How long can he hold his breath?
A full minute passes.
Holy hell. My lungs start to burn in sympathy.
Then ninety seconds.
No way. He’s holding his breath that long?
That’s incredible.
The fact that he has such complete control over his breath sends a shiver through me. I press my thighs together.
Just like this morning, when I instinctively guided his fingers to my throat. When his grip tightened, something unfamiliar sparked inside me. Curiosity. Heat.
My fingers brush the faint bruising at my throat. A pulse of longing moves through me. My heartbeat quickens with the awareness of how dangerous the feeling is.
I now understand why his directives in the kitchen make me want to obey him. To please him. To earn his praise. Because I want to feel owned by him.
I want him to make me submit.
A thrill runs through me. My scalp tingles.
I want him to control me. Control my body. My emotions. My very breath.
I relish his concern, his tenderness when he realized he might have hurt me. I blossom under his attention. It makes me want to please him even more.
Having his complete focus on me is electrifying. I want more of it.
Across the pool, other swimmers pass over the spot where he went under, oblivious. But I can't look away. My hands grip the edge of the pool, knuckles white.
Where is he? Why hasn’t he surfaced yet?
It’s been almost two minutes since he went under.
Just when I'm about to raise an alarm, his head breaks the surface.
Oh, thank God! The knot in my chest loosens.
He emerges slowly, controlled. No gasping, no frantic gulping for air. Just smooth, measured breaths. His dark hair is slicked back, water streaming down his face and bare shoulders. The morning light filtering through the windows catches on the droplets clinging to his skin.
He floats there for a moment, eyes closed, and face tilted toward the ceiling.
And for the first time since I've known him, James looks…peaceful.
Not the former Marine. Not the Ice Commander. Not the perfectionist head chef who terrorizes his kitchen staff. Not the controlled, distant husband who has his feelings in check. He’s just a man. Alone in the water. Finally still.
Is this what it takes him to find peace? Does he have to dive below water, head for a place where there’s nobody else, where he must focus on staying alive and controlling the very oxygen he takes into his lungs, for him to find peace?
My chest tightens with something very close to…
Sympathy? Turmoil? Worry? All of them, perhaps.
This confluence of feelings makes me want to swim over to him and hug him.
To tell him he’s not alone and that I’m in his corner.
But I know he’d only rebuff me. Also, I don’t want to disturb what seems to be a very private moment. So, I tread water and stay where I am.
He doesn’t look in my direction. His focus is complete. That’s something I have always admired about him. When he’s at work, his entire attention is on the dish. When he’s talking to someone, he’s absorbed completely in the conversation.
When he looks at me, it’s as if the rest of the world has faded away. All his concentration is on me. He makes me feel seen in a way no one else has. It’s seductive and drugging. And I want more of it.
He takes three more measured breaths and dives again.
This time I count. Ninety seconds. My heart begins to race. Then two minutes. My pulse pounds at my throat, behind my eyes. Two and a half. I train my gaze on the spot where he disappeared. Come back up. Come on.
When he surfaces, my muscles relax. But he doesn't pause. Three breaths. Dive. Repeat.
It's hypnotic. Terrifying. Beautiful in a way that makes my throat ache. This is where he comes to escape. Not the kitchen, not the restaurant, not our apartment with its separate bedrooms and professional distance. Here. Underwater. Where no one can reach him. Where the silence is complete.
I should leave. This feels private. Like I've stumbled onto something I wasn't meant to see. But I can't move. Can't stop watching as he surfaces and dives, surfaces and dives, pushing himself deeper into that stillness each time.
With each dive, my blood pressure spikes.
My mouth goes dry. Each time he surfaces, I’m weak with relief, but not for long.
I feel like I’m on a rollercoaster of emotions.
Waiting. Watching. Praying he’ll surface soon.
Is this how it would've felt to see him off on a mission. If we’d been married, would I have spent every second he was away waiting for news from him?
Praying he was safe? Trying to keep my spirits up every time they threatened to deflate?
Maybe, he saved me from all that stress by walking away that first night.
On his fifth dive, something changes.
He stays under longer. Three minutes, then three and a half. My heart starts pounding in my chest. That's too long. That's dangerous. My stomach bottoms out. Come up. Come on, James. Where are you?
Four minutes.
I look around for a lifeguard. I can’t see one. What the hell? How can there not be a lifeguard on duty.
I eye the blue-green water, swallow down my aversion of the deep end, and move toward it, ready to dive in myself.
He surfaces.
But this time there's something different in the way he breaks through. Less controlled. His breathing is still measured, but there's a tightness around his eyes. A tension in his jaw.
He floats there, and even from where I am, I spot that his breathing is labored. His chest rises and falls. When he pulls off his nose plug, I can see his hand is shaking.
Then he turns his head, and our eyes lock across the distance. This time, I see anguish in his gaze. Gone is the peace which had enveloped him. Instead, there’s a tension, a finely honed nervousness that clings to him.
He turns over and slowly swims toward me. When he reaches me, he plants a big hand on the deck to steady himself.
The skin around his mouth is stretched tight. The fine lines around his eyes seem deeper. His color is high. He seems pissed off at himself.
For a few seconds, we simply stare at each other. We seem to be communicating on some level I don’t understand. When he seems to calm down, I ask, "What happened down there?”
His shoulders bunch. "I couldn’t stay longer. I’ve never managed to stay underwater for more than four-and-a-half minutes."
"That’s a lot. I don’t know anyone else who can stay underwater for that long."