Page 63 of Bombshells
All the teens snicker.
Suddenly, two spectacular forearms hook me under my armpits. He gently grasps my shoulders with those strong hands.
“Now put your hand under her chin,” the instructor says. “To keep her face above the surface of the water while you swim to safety.”
Holy heck. Anton’s broad palm cups my chin, his fingers stretching gently across my throat. And then he tips me backward against his bare chest.
I realize two things at once. The first is that I’m still angry. The second is that I enjoy the feel of his hard body anyway. I still crave it. Every night I lie down in my bed and feel turned on just thinking about our night together.
I hate my life.
“Tow her in now,” the instructor says. “Kick your feet and do a back stroke or a side stroke. But don’t let her go.”
As if. We both know he can’t wait to let me go.
* * *
After class, I tell myself I’m just going to grab a cab and get out of here before he does. There’s no way I’m going to stand around looking pathetic, like I’m trying to snag his attention.
It almost works. But when I reach the building’s vestibule, I spot him on the sidewalk outside, surrounded by a handful of our students. He’s tapping someone’s email address into his phone by the look of it.
I walk fast in the other direction, but a student blows my cover.
“Hey, Miss Hansen! We got a question.” It’s Trina, and she’s waving me over.
Anton looks up and—smack—that turquoise gaze clobbers me.
“He didn’t know if you have a whole list of our emails? For planning our hockey night?”
“That’s right,” Anton says, looking sheepish. “Do we—by which I mean you—have a way of contacting everyone once I sort out the ticket situation?”
“Sure,” I say stiffly. I wish I didn’t feel so brittle. The man is doing a nice thing. “I’ve got a full list. I’ll forward it to you.”
“Thanks.” His smile brightens, and I feel it like a sunburn.
Even before I saw him naked, his attractiveness was hard to ignore. Now it’s blinding.
Ow.
I manage a friendly wave goodbye to Anton and his admirers. I glance up the street and see a yellow taxi stopped at the traffic light just a block away. I raise my hand, and the cab starts to roll toward me as the light changes.
Hurry! It can’t arrive soon enough. The moment he pulls up beside me, I grasp the door handle and prepare for a fast getaway.
“Hey, Sylvie! Wait up!” Anton calls as I open the door.
Crap.
He’s near enough that I can’t pretend deafness. And a moment later he’s sliding into the taxi beside me. The door shuts with a click, and I’m trapped with the man I can’t stop thinking about.
“Hey,” he says softly after giving the cabbie his address. “I need to talk to you.”
“Now? Did you lose my number?”
He sighs. “I didn’t call,” he says, stating the obvious. “Because I wasn’t sure what to say.”
That’s certainly not what a girl wants to hear. “Is it really that difficult?”
“Yeah, it really is.”
