I do not breathe.
I do not scoot my hips forward and grind against his forearm.
When he says in a low, smooth voice, “And I think you’re still someone who does the opposite of what she wants,” it’s already too late.
He already has me.
Literally.
In a blink, he’s slipping into the pool, grabbing my waist, and dragging me right along with him underwater.
Fully clothed, fully submerged.
I’m disoriented and it’s frigid and I want to kill this man I just fantasized about dry humping. When I pop above the water, I surprise myself with the laugh bubbling out of me.
His T-shirt clings to his chest; I slick my hair back with water. Smiles stick to both of our faces.
“You’re a dick,” I say without heat.
He laughs, using both palms to splash me. “Maybe. But you laughed.”
There’s no denying it: I did. The way I always do with him.
I undo the snaps of my overalls and peel the heavy denim off, followed by my shirt. Nash’s eyes widen. It’s comical he thinks I’m brazen enough to do what he’s imagining—that girl’s beengone for eight years. But at the look on his face, I swear he’s going down that same stretch of memory lane that I am.
The one that led us on a hike down a desolate trail, both of us sweat drenched to the bone, staring at a waterfall-fed pool. It looked too good not to be part of. Looked too good not to get tangled up in each other in. Without a word and with a wolfish grin, he peeled off his shirt; I did the same. We shed item by item until we were naked, barely under the water when we collided.
I’m pretty sure that was the day I got pregnant.
Today, however, I’m wearing a swimsuit under my clothes. One that will very much stay on my body.
I grab my sunglasses from the front pocket of my wet clothes, then toss them out. Nash peels off his shirt, my eyes snagging on the turkey tattoo on his tricep. He got it because Ben Franklin thought the turkey should have been the national bird over the eagle.
Eight years ago, he didn’t look like a history teacher; he doesn’t look like a tour guide now either.
In tubes donning animal heads, our arms dangle while our torsos hang through the centers. I shake my head at the mesh basket filled with balls and squirt guns. “Your backyard looks like you run a summer camp.”
He grins. “Kids love the pool.”
Kids.
I’m thankful for the sunglasses on my face so he can’t see how that admission makes me panic.
I want to ask him what kids.
If he wants kids.
The day I found out I was pregnant, kids were the last thing he wanted.
If I ask and he says no, the day is ruined. Or maybe it’s saved. Maybe if he doesn’t want kids, it makes all this easier. I could tell him he has one whothinks he’s dead, and we can keep it that wayforever. The sparks between us will die out, and I can focus on what matters. Or maybe he’s like Cap—a man who never wanted a kid but forces the one he has to call him dad forty-two years later.
It’s a great idea so I keep my mouth shut.
We swim until we shrivel, play pool, and eat lunch on the couch, watchingAntiques Roadshowon his oversized TV.
There’s no more talk about relationships or anything heavy.
For the first time since getting here, I wear one of the sundresses Reese sent me with, Nash’s expression faltering when I walk out in it.
