Chapter Forty-Eight
Benji
She smiles at me like I put the stars in the sky and personally turned on the sun this morning just for her. And maybe I did. Or maybe I just finally got lucky enough to be the one she looks at like that.
Either way, I’m toast.
And she’s here. Willingly. To face one of her biggest fears with me.
Her anchor. Her rock.
I want to kiss her. Right here, in front of god, lifeguards, and everybody. Full-body, can’t-walk-after kiss. Rhys deserves a damn Nobel Peace Prize for not throwing professional boundaries out the window and kissing her senseless every time she pouts or says his name.
I’ve already failed that test. Repeatedly. Happily.
She may be my student in the water, but she’s my lover on land. And it’s all I can do not to pull her into me and remind her of that with my mouth.
I stride over, keeping a respectful distance that feels stupid and unnecessary because my body already knows hers by heart.
“You want to get in the water today?” I ask.
She glances at the pool, then flicks her gaze back to me. Her nose scrunches, suspicious. “I didn’t know you knew Susan.”
My mind searches for the name and comes up empty. “Susan?”
“Yeah. Eyebrow lady. You were just in the water with her.”
I snort before I can stop myself. Those eyebrows. “That’s Rhys’s office assistant. I didn’t realize it until this week, but she’s been coming here getting ready for her Caribbean honeymoon. With her fiancé. They’re getting married this month. Her name’s not Susan though.”
Delilah laughs, biting her lip, and the sound shoots straight down my spine. I’m not proud of how close I am to pitching a tent in my swim trunks. Again.
“Well,” she says, twirling her pink heart-shaped sunglasses between her fingers, “I didn’t get off to a good start with her, so I never asked her real name. She gives off major Susan vibes.”
I chuckle. God, I love the way her brain works. “Yeah, okay. She kinda does. Her name’s actually Rachel.”
“Eh. That sort of tracks,” she shrugs. “Still feel like I nailed it.”
“Emotionally, yeah. Solid read.”
She tugs off her cover-up, revealing that perfect pin-up two-piece that hugs her like a sin, and my self-control packs a bag and books a one-way flight to nope.
“What’s next on the ‘not dying horribly in water’ checklist?” she asks.
“We get in,” I say, voice low, “and we float. Just float. Let your body relax. Let yourself trust me or yourself.”
Her eyes flick to the pool, then to me again.
There’s that flicker, fear, pride, challenge, something messier in the middle. And I’d wade through all of it with her. Every time.
She hesitates at the edge of the pool, toes curled over concrete, sunglasses back on like they’re armor.
I hold out my hand. “C’mon, gorgeous. Just a little. We’ll stay shallow.”
One of her hands slides into mine. Her skin is warm and damp with nerves, and I don’t squeeze, just hold.
“I’ve got you,” I promise.
“That’s what everyone says right before they let go and you drown and get chlorine in your sinuses and die ugly.”
“Well,” I say, tugging her lightly forward, “lucky for you, I’m not everyone.”
She steps in slow. One foot, then the other. I ease her down the stairs, water rising around her thighs, hips, waist. She stiffens when it hits her ribs.
“Too much?” I ask.
“No,” she lies.
I don’t call her out. Instead, I shift to stand behind her, arms out like I’m her own personal flotation device. My chest inches from her back, hands loose but ready.
She breathes out. It’s shaky. Not sexy shaky. Real shaky. “I don’t like this,” she says.
“I know.”
“I’m trying not to cry, and it’s very inconvenient because I look amazing today.”
“You do,” I say. “You always do.”
She tips her head back slightly, like she’s letting my voice hold her up.
“I’ve never…” she starts. “Like, I can’t do this. I know it’s stupid, but.”
“Not stupid,” I cut in, low and firm. “This is your fear. It’s real. Doesn’t make you weak.”
She shudders. “You’re really fucking nice to me.”
“That’s what people do when they’re in love, Delilah.”
That makes her go still. Dead still. Not breathing still.
And then, slowly, she lets herself fall back. Just a little. Not all the way. She’s not floating. Not yet. But she’s resting against me now. My arms around her waist. Her head tipped to the side. Her whole body trembling like a live wire that finally found a ground.
“I’m scared,” she whispers.
“I know,” I whisper back. “I’ve got you.”
A few seconds pass.
“I’m still scared.”
“Still got you.”
She lets out this half-sob laugh that breaks my whole goddamn chest open. “Benji?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m either about to cry or dry hump you in the shallow end. Both are equally likely.”
“Whichever you pick,” I say into her hair, “I’ll still be here after.”
She turns her head, leans up to kiss me, soft and desperate and full of something so real I almost forget we’re waist-deep in chlorinated childhood trauma.
Her lips are saltier than they should be. I don’t mention it.
She pulls back and says, “Okay.”
“That’s it?”
She nods. “That’s all I can do today.”
“It’s enough.”
And it is. Because she didn’t run. She let me hold her. She let herself be held.
That’s not nothing. That’s everything.
She shivers as I help her out of the water, goosebumps breaking across her shoulders like her body doesn’t know whether it’s fear or relief it’s processing.
“Sit,” I say, guiding her to a lounge chair with a big fluffy towel. I kneel and wrap her in it like she’s fragile glass fresh from the kiln, hot but still cooling, still crackable.
She lets me. Doesn’t joke. Doesn’t deflect.
I towel off her legs, her arms, the places she forgets to care for when she’s too busy pretending nothing can touch her. Then I sit beside her and hand her a bottle of water.
“You okay?” I ask.
She stares at the rippling surface of the pool like it just whispered her name in the voice of every fear she’s ever had.
“Not really,” she says, then takes a long drink. “But also, yeah?”
I smile. “That sounds right.”
“I got in,” she says softly.
“You did.”
“With you.”
“With me.”
“I didn’t scream.” She snorts and leans her head against my shoulder, her whole body melting like a marshmallow in a firepit. Sticky. Warm. A little wild.
The low, unmistakable growl of a motorcycle cuts through the birdsong and chlorine breeze. She lifts her head. Perks up like a feral cat hearing a treat bag crinkle.
Jett.
He pulls up like he’s got no patience for the laws of man or machine. All black tank top and tattoos, long legs swinging off the bike, a wet dream summoned by chaos and lube.
She beams.
“Holy fuck,” she whispers. “Jett looks like he’s about to demolish someone’s morals.”
Then, before I can even react, Rhys’s sleek, quiet car glides in behind him, parking like a gentleman. A gentleman with legs for days that are now fully visible as he steps out in designer swim trunks, Ray-Bans, and a linen button-up that’s already halfway undone.
My brain short-circuits for half a second.
Okay. Okay.
So apparently I’m not the only poolside Adonis today.
Delilah practically vibrates as she hops up, towel half-draped, boobs bouncing as she waves with both hands. “Hi, my darlings! Broody! Pool boys! Come to Mama!”
I exhale slowly through my nose.
Not jealous. Not exactly.
Just… Aware.
Rhys gives a small, amused smile and a two-fingered wave. Jett doesn’t wave at all, just stalks over.
And she’s glowing. Lit up from the inside. For them. For me. For this whole fucked up, stitched-together family of ours.
She reaches for Jett first, gives him a loud smacking kiss on the cheek. He scowls, but his ears go pink. Then she bounces over to Rhys and throws her arms around his neck.
He catches her. Doesn’t pull away.
They talk quietly for a second, her hand on his chest like she’s checking for signs of life, or planning a heist involving his shirt buttons, and then she turns, eyes finding mine instantly.
And fuck.
She walks back to me like she’s still mine. Like she never left.
“Don’t worry,” she says as she straddles my lounge chair without asking, towel slipping to reveal a ridiculous amount of thigh, “you’re still my favorite pool boy.”
I slide my hand to her waist, grip gentle but possessive. “Yeah?”
She grins, leaning in, nose brushing mine. “Yeah. You have the best floaties.”
Jett groans and turns away.
Rhys chuckles under his breath.
And Delilah settles back into me like the human storm she is.
I’ll hold her. Even when there’s thunder on the horizon.
Rhys brought grapes. Of every possible thing to show up with at a Saturday pool hangout, he rolls in with a carefully rinsed bowl of green and red grapes like he’s starring in some off-brand Greek god spread for Better Homes & Harems.
He sets them down on the little side table next to me. I can’t tell if it’s a peace offering or a challenge.
Delilah lets out a delighted gasp. “Holy shit. Dr. Wet Dreams brought fruit. All is forgiven. Mostly.”
Rhys chuckles, already removing his shirt and kicking off his slides, and Jett, grumbling like a wet cat, shucks off his tank top and stalks toward the diving board.
Delilah shifts her weight on my lap, towel completely gone now, her swimsuit still damp and clinging to every place I’ve already memorized with my hands and mouth.
She grabs a grape and pops it into her mouth, then claps as Jett climbs up the board, all shoulders and brooding biceps. “Alright! Let’s rate some ass!”
Jett gives her a middle finger without turning around.
I feed her a grape.
“Ten outta ten for disrespect,” she says around it. “But let’s see that bounce, big boy.”
He dives. A clean, aggressive slice into the water.
She whistles low. “Goddamn. Did you see the way the water rolled off his back like he was built in a sin factory?”
I hum, picking a red grape and holding it to her lips.
She licks it before taking it between her teeth. “Ten for execution. Eleven for the ass.”
Jett surfaces with a glare and a hair toss that might as well be a threat.
Next up is Rhys. Who walks to the board with the calm, predatory energy of a man who has definitely read erotic poetry aloud and positively owns lube in multiple scents.
Delilah fans herself with both hands. “Jesus. He’s about to do a certified sex dive and I’m gonna need to sit on an ice cube.”
He flips. Flips. Like some kind of precision-trained water ninja with a doctorate in seduction. Comes up grinning. Smug bastard.
Delilah screams like it’s a boyband concert. “Ten out of ten for Aqua Freud. Wet cardigan energy! Yes! Yes!”
I laugh, can’t help it. She’s sunshine and chaos and lust cranked to eleven, all bouncing in my lap like I’m her throne.
But then she twists, plucks a grape, and holds it up to my lips.
I open, let her feed me.
She does it with a grin. “You know you’re the only one I trust to catch me, right?”
It’s not the words.
It’s the truth in them.
My chest does something weird and big and tight.
I chew slowly, watching her laugh and shout and call Rhys “Moist Analyst of the Year,” but her hand stays on my chest. Her body still flush to mine.
She leans back like I’m home. Even while she yells, “Jett gets an eight now ‘cause he splashed my tits. Boo, sexy splash man!”
I feed her another grape. She moans around it.
The guys shake their heads, pretending they’re not half in love with her too.
And I’m just here, heart a little too full, towel forgotten at my feet, hands wrapped around a woman who tastes like sugar and starlight and made grapes feel sexual.
She’s mine. I wouldn’t change a thing.