Chapter Eleven
Benji
I knew from the second I saw her, bright hair, sharp mouth, tiny little thing with armor made of sarcasm and sins that she was gonna wreck me a little.
Okay. A lot.
But I wasn’t expecting this. Her in my arms. Shaking, soaking, pressed to my chest. Me the only solid thing in her universe right now. She smells like cupcakes, sunscreen, and the kind of trouble you wake up hard from… twice.
And she’s so damn small.
I don’t just mean short. I mean…delicate. If I breathe too hard she might float away, and I’m not ready to let go yet. Not even close.
I keep my arm around her even though the water’s only knee deep now. Not because she needs it. But because I do.
And like the devil herself heard my prayers and decided to punish me, Margo saunters onto the pool deck.
Twelve o’clock on the dot. Neon nails, designer sunglasses, and her I-run-the-HOA voice turned up to eleven. “Benji?” she calls, all clipped and polished and just this side of passive-aggressive.
My stomach tightens. Right. Lessons.
“I’ve got to start my next session,” I say, but I don’t move.
Because I’m still holding Delilah.
Like... holding her. Hands-on-her-waist, her-cheek-against-my-skin, fully-ignoring-boundaries style holding her. Which, in hindsight, is super not professional.
But she doesn’t pull away. She just tips her head back to look at me with those eyes like cracked glass and quiet fire, and says, “So, next week? Same time?”
I should say something casual. Something friendly.
Instead I blurt, “Do you want to get lunch?”
Her eyebrows go up, and I want to crawl into the pool filter and disappear, but she just tilts her head like she’s not sure if I’m joking or about to propose.
“After your lesson, you mean?” she asks.
“Yeah.” I nod, maybe a little too hard. “An hour. If that’s okay. I mean, I’d just need a minute to change.”
She squeezes my fingers where our hands are still tangled, and my heart does something weird in my chest. A hiccup. Or a detonation.
“Did you have a place in mind?” she asks, voice light but eyes trying to decode something in my offer.
“I usually go to that sports bar down the road. But I’m open to suggestions.” I lower my voice, and add softer, “Wherever you’d be comfortable.”
“Hmm. That sounds fun.” She grins like I just handed her the match and dared her to strike it. “I like fun. What’s it called?”
Before I can answer, Margo calls again. This time in her string bikini, already half in the pool. “Benji. Benji.”
I wince. “I’ll add time to your session, Margo,” I say without looking over. My eyes stay on Delilah, who’s watching me like she sees something in me I didn’t know was there.
“The sports bar on Oak,” I tell her, still holding her hand. “Right across from the gas station with the mural. You know it?”
She nods, mouth curled in a dangerous little smile that makes my ears go hot.
I grin back. “One hour. I’ll meet you there.”
She gives my hand a squeeze and steps away slow.
Then she’s gone. Off the deck and around the corner, trailing droplets and sunlight like she was never real at all.
I blow out a breath and turn to find Margo already in the shallow end, adjusting her top in that way that’s meant to look accidental and absolutely never is.
She’s watching me.
“New client?” she asks, as if she didn’t already do a full mental autopsy on Delilah’s life based on one thirty-second sighting.
“First time,” I say, walking over and grabbing a kickboard. “New to swimming.”
Margo hums. “Mm. She seemed…comfortable.”
“She’s nervous around water,” I say evenly. “I was helping.”
“Right.” She leans back against the tile with a practiced arch. A swimsuit commercial with a grudge. “You always help your clients like that?”
I don’t take the bait. I hand her the board. “Let’s work on your flutter kick. Last week you were overextending your knees.”
She sighs but takes it. “I liked it better when you just let me float and complimented my tan.”
I smile politely. “You hired me to teach you. This is the teaching part.”
Margo kicks half-heartedly, then adds, “You know, I just worry. About your…judgment.”
My jaw ticks, but I keep my voice calm. “You don’t have to. I know what I’m doing.”
“Do you?” she purrs. “She looked young. A little wild.”
I glance at the water, at the bubbles streaming from her kick. Think about Delilah’s hands clinging to mine. How small they were. How safe she made me feel, even when she was the one afraid.
“She’s an adult,” I say, voice firmer now. “And she’s brave. Getting in that water scared her, but she did it anyway.”
Margo rolls her eyes, but I don’t let her derail me. I’m not here for drama. I’m here to teach, and to keep things professional. I am professional.
Even if my head is completely full of pink hair and the sound Delilah made when she laughed at my stupid height joke.
“Your kick’s improved,” I say, nudging her ankle with the flat of the board. “Try keeping your hips higher next time.”
She stops paddling. “You’re really not going to tell me who she is?”
“She’s a client, Margo.” I give her a small, patient smile. “And you know I don’t talk about clients.”
She sighs, frustrated and dramatic. “Fine. But don’t come crawling back when that one tattoos your name on her thigh and starts mailing you teeth.”
I bite back a laugh and shake my head, stepping away. There will be no crawling back to Margo. Lesson learned. “You want to try backstroke next?”
“Only if you hold me like you held her.”
My cheeks go warm. “Let’s keep it professional, Margo.”
“You’re no fun anymore.”
Maybe. But the thought of that sports bar and the maybe-date waiting for me in forty-five minutes is starting to make my heart race.
Because I want fun.
Just not the kind Margo’s offering.
Once the lesson is over, I shower fast. Faster than I should, probably. Almost forget to rinse the chlorine out of my hair. My shirt sticks to my back from the humidity, and my phone buzzes with a reminder for something I immediately ignore.
Because I’m going on a date.
A real one.
With a girl who smells like frosting and moves like a prophecy. Who looked at me like I was something safe and solid in a world she didn’t trust yet like it wasn’t a big deal.
But it is.
It’s huge.
I park across from the bar and spot her through the window before I even make it inside. Perched on a stool, ankles swinging, leaning over the bartop. She’s wearing a pink sundress with little hearts on it.
And she’s smiling.
At me.
Something behind my ribs stutters, then starts dancing with no rhythm but too much hope.
I open the door and walk in like I’m not having a minor cardiac event.
She waves me over with both hands. “Benji! I already ordered drinks. Guess which one’s yours.”
I sit down beside her, the barstool creaking under my weight. “Uh. The iced tea?”
She gasps like I’ve committed a felony. “Wrong. That’s mine. It’s raspberry. Yours is the beer. You look like a beer man.”
I quirk a brow. “I… am a beer man.”
She grins, victorious, and pushes it toward me. “See? I know things. I have spooky intuition. And when need be, research helps. I asked Oliver.” She nods to the regular barkeep.
“You’re a menace,” I say, grinning back. “A cute one.”
Her cheeks go pink. Then she leans in a little and stage-whispers, “I thought about licking the rim of both glasses to claim them, but Oliver was judging me. I don’t think he believed I’m your girlfriend. The last one didn’t impress him.”
I choke on my beer.
Oliver laughs. “Still don’t believe it.”
She beams like she just won something.
Then the food shows up. My usual, but enough to share, wings and fries, just greasy enough to be glorious.
She gasps like someone brought her a baby goat to hold.
“Okay,” she says solemnly. “This is a big moment. First fry goes to you. Let me see how you handle it.”
She offers it up, holding it out between two fingers, and I lean in and take it from her with my teeth, just to play along.
Our eyes lock.
It’s weirdly intense.
“You passed,” she whispers.
“Thank God,” I whisper back. “We can’t let Oliver be right. He’s already a smug bastard.”
We eat. We talk. She tells me about the time she tried to microwave an entire rotisserie chicken “because the container said microwave safe,” and I laugh so hard I nearly inhale a pepper flake.
She swears pool chlorine smells like childhood disappointment, and I ask if that’s a real thing or just Delilah logic.
She says it’s both.
And the longer we sit there, the more I realize I don’t want this to end. She’s a kaleidoscope of chaos and comfort, and somehow, every piece makes sense next to mine.
She fits.
Even when she steals the last wing with zero shame and tells me she’ll arm-wrestle me for dessert.
I’d let her win.
Obviously.