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Yes, yes, he was, but I couldn’t let him know it. Seriously, when did he get so close?
He slouched comfortably beside me, one long arm stretched across the back of my seat as his dark eyes bore into me.
I knew how to handle men. I had met enough of Mom’s boyfriends over the years to develop a solid “red flag” early warning system. This guy screamed trouble.
Be professional.
“Was just wondering if it’s a little chilly in here for you.” I flicked my eyes deliberately toward his definitely not shrunken package.
Oops.
I expected him to recoil at the insult. Try to defend himself, or at least give me a little room to breathe. Instead, he chuckled.
“What’s your first question, Rowsthorn?”
I flipped my notebook open to a new page, ignoring my carefully prepared questions in favor of seeing where the interview would take me.
“How old were you when you first started swimming?”
“I was born part fish, so I never had any other choice. Is your hair color natural?”
I bent forward, pulling my hair from his fingers as he played with the strands.
“Can you please take this seriously? The whole school is going to read my article and think you’re a creeper. Or a fish-man.”
“Worked for Momoa,” he said with a shrug.
This was not going well. He was all but naked, dripping wet, and playing with my hair. Again. How was I expected to work under these conditions?
“Alright, Bryson. What do you want to be when you grow up?” I asked, throwing his surname back at him like a weapon. I was a strong, independent woman who could interview a school sports star without turning into a simpering idiot like the girls currently glaring at me from the other side of the pool.
“I don’t want to be anything. I will be a world record holder. I will be the strongest member of the national swim team. You’re speaking to a future celebrity. How do you feel?”
I wasn’t fast enough to cover the snort as I shifted over a seat.
“What are you doing?” he asked, leaning in and erasing the distance I had created.
“Giving you a bit more room for your head. You’re getting ego all over me,” I said, keeping my eyes on my book to hide my smirk as I made a note on his future plans.
I would never admit it to him, but it was nice to speak to someone else who knew what they wanted to do with their life. My best friend, Allie, always laughed at my insistence there was nothing else I could do. Journalism was it for me, the same way swimming appeared to be it for Kane.
“Alright, what about favorite color?” I looked his way and froze. His nose was inches from mine.
“Hazel,” he breathed without flinching. I blinked. Blinked again. Was he screwing with me?
He grinned and tugged at a loose strand of my hair. The question of any connection between my hazel eyes and his favorite color was forgotten in favor of batting his hand away.
“You know,” he said, standing so I was once more eye level with his hips. “I don’t think today is going to work for me. How about we get coffee after my morning training session?” He nodded as though things were settled, and headed down the row of seating. I gathered my bag and hurried in his stupid long-legged wake.
“You want me to get coffee with you? Wait. Why can’t we just finish this now?”
Whipping around so quickly I almost took one of his nipples to the eye, he caught my arm as I pulled back, leaning down to my level.
“I have an even better idea. A Day in the Life of Kane Bryson. You can follow me around and see what it takes to become a champion. Miss Flint will love it,” he said.
“A day…” I gaped at him. He had to be messing with me. Surely no one was this arrogant. “I have better things to do than follow you around to see whether you’re a boxers or briefs kind of guy, thank you very much,” I said, scowling in the face of that ridiculously wide grin.
He barked a laugh, backing up a step. “Sure you do. I’ll see you out front at four a.m.”
