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Right then I probably would have done anything he asked. “Is the pope Catholic?” I blurted out, something my daddy often said.
He had a slight frown. “Last time I checked. Oh!” His frown went away. “That means you’ll come swimming.”
“I, um, just need to get my bathing suit on.”
“You don’t have to,” he teased, and we still just stood there, locked in each other’s arms, neither one of us moving. It didn’t seem to be an issue for him, but I was liable to have a case of the vapors.
“I think swimsuits are necessary.”
I knew he had been joking, but I definitely didn’t need to add skinny-dipping into this situation. While I kept swallowing and trying to keep my breathing even, he studied me. “I’ll meet you in the hallway in ten minutes.”
Then he let go of me and went back to his room, closing the adjoining door behind him. I leaned back, gripping the counter for support.
I should tell him I’d changed my mind. That us swimming together, alone, was not a good idea. I shoved some lettuce into my mouth. Now I could invoke the “no swimming for an hour after eating” rule.
I looked at the door. I had to figure out a way to overcome my attraction to him. Yes, this show and experience would end, but my contact with him would not. I would still be doing PR for his family, which he happened to be a part of, and soon Kat would be a part of it, too. She would invite me to events and special occasions. Dante would keep being in my life. I could not be married to someone else and still react to him this way.
Maybe the answer wasn’t hiding from him and avoiding him, but spending more time with him. Kat had told me once about something called exposure therapy, where kids overcame their fears and anxieties by constantly being around the thing that scared them. Supposedly, this would desensitize them and lessen their reactions. At this point I was willing to try anything to get him out of my head.
After eating a bit, I chose my most modest bikini—a red and white polka-dot 1950s-inspired suit that always made me feel like Marilyn Monroe.
Putting the robe back on over my suit, I grabbed a towel and went out into the hallway. Dante gave me a gorgeous smile, which I concentrated on rather than his half-nakedness, and we started walking to the pool. He told me a story about breaking his left arm that involved his six-year-old belief that he could fly if he just really put his mind to it.
He stopped at the gate of the fence that surrounded the pool. There was a rule sign posted, and he studied it.
“What are you doing?”
“Acquainting myself with the rules. Okay, I’m ready.”
We went in, and he threw his towel onto a nearby chair and dove into the pool’s deep end. He resurfaced quickly. I slipped off my sandals and took off my robe. I could feel his eyes on me and the tension that it caused for both of us.
Repeated exposure, I reminded myself. Keeping my company alive by making Matthew Burdette happy. Those were the things I needed to concentrate on.
Ignoring my pounding heart, I went over to the stairs and descended slowly, acclimating myself to the water. It was warm and inviting, and if I closed my eyes I could almost imagine that I was entering some tropical ocean instead of a pool at a ski lodge.
I got to a place where I could touch the bottom and keep my head and shoulders above water comfortably. He swam to a point across from me.
“I heard that the men who star on this show keep a running bet on who can make out with the most women. Where are you ranked?” It was a good thing to ask him. Him messing around with other girls was still the one thing I could hold against him. The one thing I couldn’t abide in a man.
He smiled and stayed quiet. I was about to ask him again when he said, “I invoke my Fifth Amendment right against self-incrimination.”
I knew it. “You’re not a US citizen. The Constitution doesn’t apply to you.”
“You could always rectify that by marrying me.”
I narrowed my eyes at him while he laughed at his own joke. “Pass. And thanks for not answering my question.”
“Why do you care if I kiss anyone else?”
“I don’t!” I said, a little too quickly.
