Thirteen #2
‘Are you?’ a quiet voice asks, and it takes me a second to realize it was Brendan.
‘Completely,’ I respond, without hesitation, momentarily floored by how much of a relief it is to not have to lie about something, to offer them this one, true thing. ‘Honestly, I think I’ve been over him for a while.’
‘Why didn’t you break up with him?’
‘Easier not to.’
‘That’s sad.’
I shrug, shifting uncomfortably, grateful when a klaxon sounds, signaling the swimmers to get ready. And with another, they set off.
I’ve seen Heath swim before. I know he’s good.
But I didn’t realize I’d always watched with a certain kind of detachment before until right now, when every facet of my concentration is focused on him as he flies through the water with clear, powerful butterfly strokes, leaving everyone else in his wake.
I shift again – for different reasons this time.
Experience a different kind of discomfort.
The unnerving kind. The kind that makes me want to slap myself upside the head, the kind that I imagine would inspire mockery and jeering and judgment because it is, undoubtedly, a little weird to get turned on by a man’s aquatic prowess.
Yet here I am. Hot and bothered by the sight of my fake boyfriend cutting through the water like a knife through butter. Securing a win so easily, it’s thoroughly embarrassing for everyone else.
It’s over quick – too quick, I find myself lamenting, find myself thinking I could watch him go all day – and as the men pull themselves out of the water, I turn to the others. ‘Is that what people look like when I beat them?’
Both girls burst into laughter. ‘I think they look worse, actually.’
‘Huh.’ Well, I almost feel bad now.
I face forward again, and immediately lock eyes with Heath. Jerking a little in surprise, I quickly compose myself, lifting my hands high enough for him to see my little clap of congratulations.
My mouth quirks when he bows dramatically. My cheeks heat when he winks. My eyes roll when he blows me a fucking kiss, but I’m smiling, damn it. Hard enough to fucking hurt.
And then, my perpetual frown is slipping into place when a hand grips the back of my head and turns it to the side, to where a group of swimmers in my division are taking up space on the bleachers, scowling as their gazes flit between me and Heath.
‘That’s what they look like.’
‘Huh,’ I say again, spine straightening, a little . . . not sure. ‘Sucks to be them.’
I don’t see him again until my last event of the day – his too.
We’re both warming up poolside, him with his team, me more than a stone’s throw away from mine because my team consists of a guy I’ve barely spoken to, the girl who fucked my boyfriend while he was still my boyfriend, and the former boyfriend in question.
I ignore them as I stretch, but the piercing eyes at the other end of the pool aren’t so easy to dismiss.
Heath has his own stretching to do, but he isn’t. There are at least three different people trying to talk to him, but he doesn’t do that either. He just looks at me. Drags those eyes over every inch of my body, lingering on my bare legs, bare shoulders, bare arms.
I cock my head, eyes narrowing, and he just grins. Unbothered. Unashamed by his perusal. And, shit, if he’s going to do it, I guess I have every right to too.
He’s ridiculous, is all I can think. Absolutely ridiculous, because no one should look like that.
A sculpted torso, strong shoulders, every inch of him lean and honed and powerful.
And the tattoos. Jesus, the tattoos. One thigh completely covered in intricate work, a longhorn on the other, smaller ink scattered along his calves and arms, that jellyfish spanning one firm pec and curling over the same shoulder, and another piece nestled amongst the defined lines of his right oblique.
I’ve noticed them before, of course I have, but I’ve never noticed them.
Not with any kind of real interest. Now, though, I wish I was a lot closer, capable of proper scrutiny, of deciphering what each one is.
When it registers that my gaze has lingered for far too long on the ink peeking out from below the waistband of his Speedo, I have to look away.
Shaking my head, trying to shake him out of it, except he’s kind of stuck.
As is this weird, all-consuming need to impress.
To do even better than usual. To win, but not just because I want to beat him.
I want to show off for him.
I’m mentally grabbing that ridiculous notion with both hands and choking it when real hands curl over my shoulders.
I jolt, surprised, and I’m not sure what to think about the way I instantly relax when I glance back and find Heath right behind me, barely a couple of inches between us, the warmth of his body bleeding into me.
I’m even less sure about the goosebumps that spring up as his thumbs dig into the tired muscles between my shoulder blades, soothing the aches of a busy day, and the shiver that tickles my spine when his mouth brushes my earlobe. ‘How you feeling, baby?’
Watchful eyes burn the side of my face, but not as potently as calloused fingertips scald the skin they skate over. ‘Fine.’
‘Heard you’ve been killing it today.’
‘Obviously.’
A husky laugh warms the curve of my neck, and something pulses in my lower stomach. ‘Sorry I missed it.’
‘Wasn’t anything special.’
‘Beg to differ.’
‘How would you know? You weren’t watching.’
‘Because it was you.’
My entire body goes lax. I think, if I didn’t catch myself in time, I would end up nothing but a puddle on the floor.
As it is, I don’t feel entirely solid as I roll my shoulders back until that overwhelming touch falls away.
‘Go away now,’ I flick my fingers dismissively and pray I don’t look quite as dopey as I feel. ‘You’re distracting me.’
Another laugh brushes my shoulder – warm, smiling lips do too. ‘Yes, ma’am.’
Dutifully, he starts to walk away, leaving me to marvel over how easy that was. Establishing a boundary, and having it respected. Asking for what I wanted and getting it without the guilt trip.
‘Heath?’ I find myself calling out before he gets too far.
He pauses instantly, quick to glance over one broad shoulder.
I swallow. ‘You were pretty special yourself.’
Perfect white teeth flash. ‘Thanks, baby.’
Something hot curls at the base of my spine. ‘But I’m better.’
His bark of laughter fills the entire room. ‘Oh, I know.’
‘Are you . . .’ I pause, cock my head, half-joke, half-actually-ask, ‘Are you gonna be mad when I beat you?’
That smile falls away. Head shaking, he drags a palm over his buzzcut, and then, a second later, that palm is cupping my hip.
He closes the distance between us in the literal blink of an eye, so sudden I instinctively take a step back.
But I don’t go anywhere, he doesn’t let me, his fingertips curl beneath the tight elastic of my swimsuit, hold me in place, make me shiver.
‘No, Daniela,’ he says, firm and deep and unwavering. ‘I will not be mad when you beat me.’
I swallow again, finding it a lot harder than I did a minute ago. ‘You sure?’
‘Anyone with half a brain would be turned the fuck on by how good you are. And I’ve got a whole one.’
I swear I hear the distinct clunk of my jaw hitting the tiles.
I’m sure I’m bright red, sure I visibly tremble when he snaps my swimsuit against the sensitive skin where my hipbone curves, sure I’m losing my fucking mind, because when he walks away for a final time, I want to chase after him like a needy puppy.
I don’t, though. I stay exactly where I am. I curl my hands into fists, I mentally slap myself across the face, and I demand that my good sense comes the fuck back to me.
‘You’re such a fucking idiot, you know that?’
Yup.
That’ll do that.
With a sigh, I brace my hands on hips and paste on my best, bored expression. ‘Talking to yourself, Ben?’
My ex scowls. And then he winces because I guess such a fierce expression pulls at the bruise still mottling his cheekbone, at the tiny split in his top lip. ‘You see what he’s doing, right?’
God, I can’t wait to hear this. ‘Enlighten me.’
‘He’s distracting you, Dani.’
I bristle at the accusation. ‘I’m not distracted.’
‘Yes, you are, and you’re gonna fuck up the race.’
I scoff at the audacity, laughing at how ludicrous he is.
‘He wants to win,’ the freaking devil on my shoulder sneers.
‘Then he’ll win, and it won’t be because of me.’
‘You’re delusional.’
‘You’re one insult away from drowning.’
Ben’s nostrils flare, but I’m saved from any more of his temper tantrum by a whistle blowing, leaving him no choice but to stomp toward the starting blocks because he’s the leader in our relay.
Sienna lines up behind him. She tries to talk to him, but he straight up ignores her – I spend a split second feeling sorry for her before imaginary scarlet letters spelling fucked my boyfriend flash above her head.
Third in our relay, I take my time slotting in line, leaving a healthy amount of space so the blind rage I consider synonymous with the duo in front of me makes way for my focus to snap into place.
Almost into place. It cracks for a second, letting through a tiny sliver of indulgence that guides my gaze sideways.
To Heath, first in his line, no longer smiling.
Locked in. He lowers himself into the pool, ready to launch into that unbeatable backstroke, and even though my intense stare must be pretty freaking close to tangible, he doesn’t look my way. He’s completely focused.
Anyone with half a brain would be turned the fuck on by how good you are.
I swallow thickly.
Yeah, I get that.