Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
ELLIOT
The community pool isn’t glamorous. It’s better described as “well-loved.” Big windows line one wall, letting in grey morning light that ripples across the water’s surface.
The ceiling is high and industrial, with chipped white beams and vents that hum steadily overhead.
The lifeguard chair sits empty, a towel draped over the back, while a pile of foam noodles and kickboards lean against a wall in the corner.
The water itself is that unnatural yet somehow inviting shade of pale blue, that almost glows under the fluorescent lights.
There’s a comfort to the sound of it lapping against the tiled edges, punctuated now and then by the hollow splash of someone testing the temperature with their toes.
The tiles underfoot are cool and a little gritty.
Most of my group is already here—white hair and silver beards, bathing suits in every shade from sensible navy to bold floral.
They greet me with warm smiles, some raising foam dumbbells in salute.
Each one shows up ready to move, to laugh, to work.
I love that about them. All of them have some sort of limitations, either from injuries or simply old age, but aquafitness is a wonderfully accessible form of exercise and I strongly believe that fitness is for everyone.
“I’ve got a bone to pick with you, Ellie girl.”
Just one today, Regina? I think before turning to one of my most loyal class attendees.
“Good morning, Reggie,” I sing out in my most cheerful voice, as though she’s not marching across the pool deck like she’s on a mission to drown me.
“Is it good?” she snaps, eyes narrowed. “Because so far, this day is so saturated in hypocrisy, and I don’t see a single thing good about it.”
“What’s going—”
“I’ll tell you what’s going on.” She stabs a finger toward the shallow end. “Marla is wearing a bikini. A bikini! And after I was personally banned from wearing mine not three weeks ago, I would like to file a formal complaint.”
I follow her line of sight to poor Marla, who is inching timidly down the pool stairs as though the water might bite.
She’s in a sensible, high-waisted two-piece—more 1950s pinup than girls gone wild—and the bottom comes up high enough to cover the hysterectomy scar she once confessed made her self-conscious.
She glances at me, cheeks pink, and mouths a guilty little sorry before ducking her head into her shoulders like a turtle retreating into its shell.
“Two-pieces aren’t banned, Reggie.”
“Mine certainly was.” Her sniff of outrage could clear a clogged sinus cavity.
“That’s because your breasts kept popping out to say hello.”
For the record, it wasn’t a bikini. It was dental floss disguised as swimwear. And it did, in fact, fail to keep her eighty-three-year-old curves a secret from anyone with functioning eyes.
“That happened less than half a dozen times,” she says breezily, waving her hand dismissively. “And it’s not my fault that my girls can’t be contained. They’re social creatures, like me. They want to be seen and appreciated.”
To punctuate this, she gives her shoulders a shimmy, and sure enough, her pendulous breasts sway dramatically beneath the plunging neckline of her one-piece, like they’re agreeing wholeheartedly with her.
“They are glorious,” I admit in an attempt to appease her. “But the community centre has a no-nudity policy.”
“Bunch of prudes,” she mutters. “It’s not like I’m hurting anybody.”
I lower my voice. “I wouldn’t be so sure. Henry’s still recovering from his bypass surgery. You wouldn’t want to put him back into tachycardia, would you?”
Her eyes sweep the pool deck until they land on her target. Poor Henry, my sweet, painfully shy newbie, happens to glance up at just the wrong moment. Reggie straightens her spine, rolls her shoulders back, and hits him with a wink that could power the lights in the whole building.
Henry goes redder than a lobster at a clambake and immediately pretends to be fascinated by his foam dumbbells.
“Oh, fine.” She sighs dramatically, though her mouth twitches at the corners. “I’ll behave. But for the record, if Henry did keel over, we’d get to call the paramedics again.” She fans herself like a swooning debutante. “And maybe this time, there’d be one for both of us.”
“I don’t need you manufacturing medical emergencies just to find me a date, Reg.”
“What if I faked one instead?”
I give her my best warning glare. “Please don’t pull the fire alarm again. They’ll fire me.”
She waves off my concern like it’s a fruit fly buzzing around her head.
“Those firefighters were hot and you know it.” Her eyes do a quick once-over of me, and she clicks her tongue like she’s grading a test I’ve already failed.
“Honestly, you could learn something from me. You’ve got a fabulous figure.
Stop hiding it. Why do you insist on that drab piece of Lycra? ”
The one-piece she’s insulting happens to be my favourite suit.
Yes, it’s not the most flattering garment, but it’s comfortable and has held up well through the years, aside from a bit of fading.
Even though I teach the class from the pool deck, I usually sneak in a quick swim before or after class, and it’s the only suit I’ve ever found that doesn’t ride up.
There is no delicate way to pick a bathing suit out of your butt when teaching in front of a large group of people.
“I’m not giving up on you,” Reggie admonishes, lowering herself into the pool like a queen entering a ballroom. One hand clutches the railing, the other flares outward for balance, and her entrance is every bit as dramatic as her personality. “Mark my words. I will find you a man.”
“I’m not looking for one,” I mutter, shaking my head as I lower myself to sit on the pool’s edge, feet dangling in the cool water. A man is the last thing I need. And yet…
Arthur’s face flashes uninvited into my thoughts—the earnest crease of his brow as he apologized yesterday, the steady determination he carried through every exercise in our session afterward.
And damn it all, the way his shoulders flexed when he pushed himself just a little harder than he needed to.
Feeling my heart rate quicken and my temperature rise, I promptly push myself off the ledge and into the pool. The shock of the cold water helps, but not nearly enough. I dunk my head under, grateful for the excuse to hide, and in the process miss whatever Reggie just said.
When I resurface, pushing wet hair out of my face, I turn toward her. “Sorry, what was that, Reggie?”
“I said…” Her voice trails off, dazed, her gaze locked on something behind me. “I guess I’ll just find one for myself. And would you look at the candidate who just appeared.”
I twist around, and my stomach does a somersault. Arthur Stetson is standing on the pool deck, looking like a fish out of water. A very large, very broad-shouldered fish.
My mouth goes dry as my eyes shamelessly drink him in.
He’s built differently than the athletes I treat.
Less sculpted, more solid. He looks like he was designed to shoulder burdens no one else could carry.
Strong thighs braced in black swim trunks, a broad chest dusted with dark hair, thick arms that could probably lift me as easily as one of the foam dumbbells stacked by the lane ropes.
My traitorous mind lingers on the thought of my nails skimming down that chest, leaving red trails across skin that looks too inviting not to touch.
“Dibs,” Reggie loudly declares.
“Hi.” My voice comes out embarrassingly high-pitched as I duck lower into the water. Too low. My mouth fills, and I sputter and cough like a first-timer in swim class. “You came.”
Arthur doesn’t move, but his knuckles whiten around the towel in his hands. “You recommended it. And you’re the boss.”
Heat prickles up my neck. I don’t need a mirror to know I’m blushing to my roots. My brain scrambles for something witty, something professional, anything—but all I come up with is static.
“I’m up for the job if you’re not, honey,” Reggie pipes up from behind me, practically licking her lips.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” I rush out, forcing a bright smile and ignoring her. “We’re just about to get started. Come on in. The water’s fine.”
“The water’s not the only thing that’s fine,” Reggie stage-whispers, earning a ripple of giggles from the group of ladies clustered around her.
If Arthur hears, he doesn’t show it. His face stays carefully neutral as he grips the support rail and lowers himself into the pool. Even in the shallow end, the water barely reaches his waist, leaving most of him gloriously on display.
And I am definitely not staring.
“Alright, everyone,” I call, swimming toward the ladder with a confidence I absolutely do not feel. “Let’s get this party started.”
I haul myself out of the pool, water streaming down my legs. I find my phone where I left it on a nearby chair, connect it to the pool’s speaker and start my playlist. Familiar Motown beats fill the space, bouncing off the high ceiling until the whole pool comes alive.
“Let’s start with a gentle warm-up. Follow me.”
I force myself to shake off the nerves prickling at my skin.
The music helps. So do the bright, eager faces in front of me.
This is why I love teaching aquafitness.
I mean, where else can low-impact cardio double as a dance party?
Within minutes, shoulders loosen, laughter ripples across the water, and voices rise in whoops when a favourite track kicks in.
It’s enough to anchor me. To make me forget that there’s a certain hot, perpetually grouchy man lurking at the back of the pack.
Almost. He’s moving with the group, yes, but not one with them, shoulders tight, posture stiff.
My attention keeps snagging on him anyway, like a sweater catching on a nail.
Fifty minutes vanish in a blink; the way they always do when the class gets rolling. I linger on the pool deck afterward, chatting with Ginny, who’s practically glowing as she tells me how much the class has helped her hip replacement recovery. Her pride warms me more than a hot shower ever could.
Eventually, I tear myself away and start to gather my gear. My hair clings damp against my cheeks as I glance down the deck and spot trouble.
Reggie.
She’s planted herself squarely in Arthur’s path, the human equivalent of a toll booth.
“You remind me of my third husband,” she’s saying when I hurry over, towel cinched tight around me. “Truth be told, he was the only one who could keep up with me in the bedroom.”
Arthur’s eyes find mine, wide and pleading. Save me.
“Hey!” I interject brightly, sliding between them. “Thanks for coming to class, Arthur. We loved having you. But don’t you have a flight to catch?”
The grateful look he shoots me sends a flutter spiraling through my stomach. Then his gaze drops—slowly, inexorably—sliding over the curves of my towel-wrapped body.
The flutter becomes a full-body tremor.
He clears his throat, his voice rougher than before. “I do, actually. It was nice to meet you…”
“Regina Winchester.” Reggie leans in, ever the opportunist. “But you can call me Reggie. Or anything else you’d like.”
Arthur’s face stays completely impassive, but his clipped reply makes me bite back a laugh. “Noted.”
Then his eyes flick back to me, holding for one charged heartbeat too long. “I’ll talk to you soon.”
How soon? The words scream in my head, but all I manage is a nod and a professional smile. “Sounds great. Good luck this week.”
“Thanks. I’ll need it.”
He sidesteps Reggie like she’s radioactive and strides toward the locker rooms, towel still clutched in his hand.
“You know,” Reggie says, lips curling mischievously as she watches him go, “there’s more than enough of him to go around.”
“Reggie,” I warn.
“I’m just saying.” She sighs dreamily. “We could share him.”
The thought slams into me before I can stop it: I don’t want to share him.
And that’s when I know I am so, so screwed.