She always swam off her frustration, and boy was she frustrated. After having two dates in the last three days, she’d just sent her first email update to Karen. First up had been Matt Kelly, the Mr. Know-It-All Doctor. Man, that guy had a god complex. He had neither asked her any questions nor bothered to listen when she managed to squeeze a word in edgewise. He’d asked to see her again after trying to kiss her. She’d told him she was busy. Permanently.
The hike with Forest Ranger Bill hadn’t been awful, just dull as dirt. He’d droned on and on like she was a biology student titillated by nature stories. He’d even pointed out some cat scat. Well, she wasn’t a Girl Scout—she only liked the cookies. When he told her he’d love to show her some falls on their second date, she’d declined.
So far, she only had two things to say in her article, and neither was life affirming.
Dating again sucked balls.
And that whole adage about having to kiss a lot of frogs to find your prince? Well, frog legs were more appetizing.
She made another turn and pushed off the wall again. Another body appeared in the water at the end of the pool, visible from the waist down from her underwater perspective. She noted the rippling muscles in the man’s abdomen and the dark arrow of chest hair that headed down into tight black swim trunks. As she swam closer, he pushed off the wall and began to swim like someone had fired the starting gun. Powerful freestyle strokes sliced through the water in the lane next to her, and he passed her in a blur, bubbles rippling. She pushed off the wall again and started swimming faster.
His technique was picture-perfect. He surged ahead, all power and speed. She’d bet her morning coffee he was professionally trained.
And then he switched to the butterfly stroke three laps later and confirmed her impression. His body thrust out of the water, his arms spreading out like an eagle, before surging back into it, giving an eel-like kick.
When he switched to breast stroke, a healthy streak of competitiveness kicked in, and she followed suit. She watched him out of her peripheral vision like she had when she was racing at Columbia. She caught the chop from his stroke.
She knew the minute he started racing her. His head angled a fraction before he submerged himself for another lap. Then she did nothing but concentrate on her stroke—and his position.
He was significantly taller, which made him eat up the distance faster. But she weighed less and was slightly more agile on the turns.
Her heart thundered in her chest as she pulled through the bubbles dancing in the water. When she briefly surfaced, she checked the clock. She’d been swimming for nearly an hour. Her legs and arms burned with fatigue. She craved Gatorade.
She sprinted as fast as she could as they turned into the next lap. He stayed with her, inching ahead. She kicked faster, pulling them even. She caught sight of the cross sign at the end of the pool, and she surged and pulled and snapped her legs together like a demented frog. When she reached the front of the pool, she slapped her hands against the wall to stop. Her competitor made the turn and swam on.
She sucked in air when she pulled herself to a standing position, her skin hot against the cold water, her heart pounding. Sweat drops coated her Gatorade bottle. She took small sips, knowing she’d only cough it up.
Her companion thundered toward her in his blue swimming cap and silver reflective goggles before slowing and stopping. When he finally stood in the water, his breath was whooshing in and out. He reached for his green water bottle.
She couldn’t help but stare at his body. His arms looked like they’d been chiseled out of stone, and his abs set a new record for washboard. She left her goggles on. Having red marks around her eyes was so not attractive.
He flashed a grin after draining half the bottle. “You give as good as you get. I didn’t expect such healthy competition this early in the morning, but you have my deepest thanks.”
She grinned right back. “Ditto. I haven’t raced like that in years. You know your stuff.”
He took a deep breath, and his rib cage lifted, making his muscles ripple like the water around him. Her nipples tightened. God, what a body. Perhaps he was a lost Chippendale dancer or something. Maybe his car had broken down on the way to Vegas, and he needed to stay here until it was fixed.
“You’ve got a great form there.” He tugged his goggles off. Melting brown eyes crinkled as he grinned at her.
God, he looked good wet. Water dripped down his body like raindrops on a windowpane. He made her want to run into the locker room for dollar bills so she could see how many she could stick to his nearly naked body.
She looked down shyly. “Thanks. I try to keep in shape.”