Rising above the over-chlorinated water of the Laguna Palms community pool, I inhale a lungful of air and dive back down, my arms and legs propelling me toward the end. When I reach the wall, I rise, sliding my hand down my face to clear my vision as I steady my breath.
“Seriously?” A woman’s voice fills my water-filled ears.
I shake my head to try and recover my hearing once more, and my eyes focus on a set of pink-manicured toes resting on a lounge chair in front of me.
“Don’t you have your own pool?” she asks, folding her book and setting it aside.
I move toward the ladder, climbing out. Drenched, I’m caught off guard when she tosses me a towel from the chair beside her.
“My pool is . . . out of commission today.” I opt to leave it at that and not go into detail about the floating globs of orange vomit left by a mystery guest this morning. “I pay my association dues. I’m allowed to swim here.”
I dry off, half-attempting to comb my hair into place and hoping she doesn’t think I’m doing it for her.
I mean, sure, Delilah’s hot.
She’s beyond hot.
She’s like a mermaid and a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model had a baby . . . hot. And I’m not even sure she realizes it.
Bee-stung lips. Hourglass curves. Dark, sultry gaze. Long, dark hair that falls in her face.
But after the season I had last year and almost getting kicked off the team for dropping twelve too many F-bombs on live television and discovering my playboy reputation was beginning to overshadow all the hard work I put into my athletic prowess, I made an emergency re-commitment to all things career-oriented.
No girls.
Less booze.
Zero shenanigans.
Coach’s orders – or else I’ll be released from my wildly lucrative contract.
I’d forfeit millions in future earnings.
The party last night was an exception. A couple of players and I decided to throw something together for our buddy, Weston, who’s been down and out since breaking things off with his long-time girlfriend. We gave him strict instructions to show up in head-to-toe green, and the asshole had the nerve to walk into his stoplight party in fucking yellow.
Yellow!
“Fair enough.” Delilah shrugs, retrieving her book and burying her nose between the pages. Lowering it into her lap a moment later, she shields her eyes from the sun and looks my way. “Anyone ever tell you staring is rude?”
“I’m not staring. I was thinking. You just happened to be blocking my line of sight.”
She flicks a page. “Stare in a different direction.”
“What if I don’t want to? What if I want to stare to the north?” God damn it. I have more game than this.
I continue to gape, trying to get a read on the enigma before me. A perfect, shiny bun rests on top of her head. Not so much as a hair out of place. She adjusts her giant sunglasses, pushing them up the bridge of her straight-as-an-arrow nose and leans back in the lounger, swiping a Red Vine from a small package to her side and sticking the end in the corner of her mouth.
Oh, how I’d give anything to be that Red Vine right now, nestled between those two pillow-sized lips she has.
And then my gaze drops down to the rest of her.
Her hourglass figure is covered in a modest, black one-piece.
Lame.
“You should really try to cover up a little more.” I toss my towel over my shoulder and pretend to be disgusted.
She tugs her sunglasses off her face, jaw gone slack.
“I mean, really. This is a family establishment and you’re lying around in that?” I point. “I don’t think Myrtle Rickers would appreciate the kind of looks you’re going to draw from Mr. Rickers when they get here in . . .” I glance at the clock hanging on the side of the pool house. “Oh, about fifteen minutes.”
Delilah glances down at her outfit, and I repress a chuckle. I can already tell she’s going to fucking hate me by the time the summer’s over.
Or maybe she already does.
I’m sure I didn’t make the best impression last night, but she left me no choice. If she acts like a toddler, she’s going to get treated like one.
“I’m kidding,” I say. “But you do look like a schoolmarm and an Amish pastor had a baby.”
“You’re an asshole.” She hides her face with her book.
“You know, you really fit right in here,” I say. “You hate noise. And parties. And fun. You go to bed at a decent hour. And you wear funeral-appropriate swimwear. You can’t be much older than, what, twenty-four? Twenty-five? But you’re basically retired. Please tell me you had at least one rebellious year of college, otherwise I’m going to be really fucking disappointed in you.”