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I wrap a towel around my waist and look down at my black string bikini, the only one I grabbed when I moved some of my clothes from the dorm. I should probably be wearing a conservative one-piece like a lifeguard, but I can’t worry about that now.
Every afternoon, we talk about swimming, which makes good sense in the Napa heat, but then we always get sidetracked with art projects and other things. I’m so glad to be able to do this with her today.
As soon as we settle ourselves at the pool, Jackson hunkers down on a lounge, claiming he’ll only work for an hour or so. I want him to get a break the same way he’s giving me a break today. I feel like he wants it, but he’s having trouble allowing himself to have it.
“Ready too. Cannonball?” I challenge.
“Last one in is a rotten egg!” Fiona shouts, running ahead of me into the bright sunlight.
Fiona’s small body hits the water with a small splash, and I follow with a bigger one, my cannonball turning into more of a belly flop with my forward momentum.
When I pop up from the water, I see Jackson fighting a smile, droplets of water clinging to the strands of hair that he pushes off his forehead, revealing the worry lines he seems to have permanently etched there. He hasn’t taken out his laptop yet, so the only thing wet is him.
“Sorry, not sorry,” Fiona shrieks, and I watch Jackson’s face, the crinkles forming around his amused eyes as he debates whether to freak out that his daughter is growing up so fast.
“I’m a little sorry,” I tell him, hauling myself over the side of the pool and grabbing a yellow striped towel from a stack on a lounge chair. He accepts the towel I hand him and runs it over his face. Looking down, he sees the water spots on his pale blue tee and shakes his head.
“Guess if I can’t beat ‘em…” Reaching behind his neck, Jackson pulls off his shirt in one swift motion, and I do my best not to stare at his chest.
I fail miserably.
Lightly dusted with chest hair, his pecs swell hard and lean above a set of abs that create their own shadows beneath each one. The sunlight dances off skin that manages a golden tan that belies a man who works in an office all day. His shoulders and biceps flex as he pushes himself up from the lounge chair and stalks toward me.
“You better move quick, Ruby.” His growl is a warning, but his eyes are playful as I back away and he advances.
I manage a clumsy swan dive into the pool a second before his hands reach out to push me. A second splash next to mine tells me he’s in the water.
Thank goodness, because I don’t think I can pretend not to notice his bare chest for another minute.
“Who wants to play Marco Polo?” Fiona yells, delighted that she has both of us in the water. A captive audience at her bidding.
“Me!” Jackson says, swimming away from her.
“Me too.” I swim in the same direction as Jackson while Fiona turns her back and counts to six.
“Marco,” she calls, spinning around with her eyes closed and drifting atop the water.
“Polo,” Jackson calls in a quiet voice that sounds like a parrot. I’ve never seen him so playful before, and it warms my heart.
Fiona swims off in his direction, and he gracefully pivots toward me, hand brushing against my leg as he positions himself farther from Fiona. I feel the electric zing of awareness at his touch. Water does conduct electricity, so it’s probably magnified.
Sure. Keep telling yourself that.
“Marco,” she calls, reaching around her without seeing.
“Polo,” I squeak like a tiny mouse. She cracks up and lurches in my direction. I’m stuck between the wall and Jackson, with no hope of escaping if Fiona continues in my direction.
I dunk under the water and swim like crazy for the other side of the pool. Jackson takes the fall, and Fiona nabs him in the next round. I’ve never seen a man look more delighted to lose a game.
We spend another lazy few hours like this—Jackson accidentally brushing past me in the water, me trying not to feel anything each time he does. Fiona is delighted by every game until she realizes how hungry she is.
Sitting on a lounge with a towel around my waist, I notice Jackson’s eyes dropping from my face to where my bikini top minimally covers my breasts—it’s enough coverage for a South of France beach, but probably not for a G-rated day with my boss.
He shouldn’t be looking, and I shouldn’t be enjoying watching his Adam’s apple bob each time he swallows hard and forces his gaze away. I’m no better, sneaking hungry looks at his chest and abs whenever I think he’s distracted by Fiona.
“How’d you remember I like the Caprese sandwich?” I say, marveling at how this man’s brain files away details mentioned in passing. I hadn’t even gotten the job here yet, and he remembers something I said on my interview day.
Jackson shrugs, but I catch the trace of a smug smile on his lips. “I remember stuff that matters.” And my heart melts.
