"It's weird not seeing you in a suit," I commented, perching on the edge of Hawthorne House's pool. Cautiously, I dipped my feet into the water.
Grayson spared me an emotionless glance as his blond head of hair surfaced above the water. Despite the countless minutes I'd been watching him swim laps, he hadn't acknowledged my presence until now.
"What's weird," he said, reaching for a towel two feet scarce of me, "is seeing you in a bikini."
My lips twitched. As Grayson dried his hair, I watched him. When he lifted himself from the pool, seating himself beside me on the edge, I examined him.
He wore swim shorts the same color as his suit coats — black. I wondered, then, if Grayson had ever worn anything but neutral colors.
Doubtful.
"Care to tell me," Grayson asked, draping his towel around his shoulders, "why you're out here at five in the morning?"
"I could ask you the same."
His gray eyes were steady. "I couldn't sleep."
"Neither could I."
"Of all the things we have in common, I think insomnia is my least favorite." Grayson shrugged off his towel and neatly folded it in his lap. As he did so I could've sworn his lips had tilted upward.
"Mine too," I said.
Grayson set aside his towel. He fixed his gaze on me, clearly waiting for a better explanation than my lack of sleep.
"I was hoping," I finally said, glancing between him and the water, "that you could teach me."
"Do you not know how to swim?"
Grayson's tone wasn't judgmental, although I'm sure coming from anyone else it would be.
"I know basics," I said, a little defensive. "How to tread water, freestyle . . ."
I'd hoped to provide him with more than the two meager skills every child learned, but I couldn't conjure up any more.
Patient, Grayson asked, "Do you know how to do a backstroke?"
"No. They look simple, though."
"They're not hard," Grayson said, casting his gaze out over the pool, "but certainly not as easy as they look."
Embarrassment lodged in my throat. Before I could backtrack, maybe lie and explain that I really did know, Grayson said, "I will teach you."
He offered his hand to me. The two feet separating us suddenly felt much smaller. As I took his warm, callused hand in mine, Grayson returned to his element — the water.
Still holding my hand, he pulled me in with him. I was reminded, then, of how gentle Grayson was. Of the difference between him and Jameson.
Hesitation opposed to confidence.
I wasn't sure what I wanted.
"Let's start here," Grayson said. "It's shallow."
I nodded in agreement; the water barely reached my waist at the foremost of the pool.
"The most important thing," Grayson told me, "is to keep your body straight. It keeps you afloat."
I nodded.
Grayson first helped me master the art of floating on my back. I wasn't good at it.
"Straighten," he reminded me on my third attempt. "Align your hips with the water level."
Struggling to keep my head above the water, I forced my body to feign a plank.
"That's better," Grayson said. He supported my head as it began to dip once more. "Don't panic. I've got you."
Grayson allowed me a break before teaching me the basics of backstrokes. I mostly tuned him out, though, because it was easier when I was actually on my back and he was guiding my arms and legs through the motions.
It was almost eight o'clock by the time I'd mastered one consecutive lap across the pool. I hadn't noticed the sun rise. All I'd noticed for the past three hours were Grayson's movements, my own, and his velvety voice instructing me.
At half past eight, Grayson and I had emerged from the pool. I'd forgotten a towel, but Grayson handed me his.
I wanted desperately to go inside and get warm. Though the sun had risen, my hair was wet and my body damp. But Grayson was still watching me, and I needed to ask him something.
I walked across the lawn bordering the pool and handed him his towel. As I watched him dry off, I contemplated if whether what I was about to ask was a good idea or not.
Grayson spared me a look that almost resembled a smile. "You're getting better. With practice, I'm sure you'll —"
"Will you teach me again?" I interrupted.
It slipped between my teeth.
Grayson held my gaze for long enough that I was sure he was going to turn me down. But then he halved the space between us and said, "Yes. I will."
He was so close I could smell his salty breath. The scent of chlorine was disrupted by a spicy cologne I rather liked. More than that, though, his lips were closest. His eyes fixed on mine.
His gaze scared.
I knew kissing him would change things.
But he'd kissed me before. Maybe it was my turn to do the kissing.
So I did.
And his lips were as hesitant as I'd expected. But the hand he slipped around the back of my neck wasn't. And neither were his intense gray eyes.
Whether he'd admit it or not, Grayson Hawthorne wanted this. Wanted me.
And I'd fueled the fire.
I just couldn't tell if I'd made the right choice or not.
But at my next swimming lesson, I'd surely find out.
