Page 23 of The Dixon Rule

I breathe in the warm summer air. It’s a gorgeous morning. Maybe I’ll play golf after all. But that swim sounds nice too. So why not both?

Like the man of leisure I am, I change into swim trunks and shove my feet into flip-flops. With an oversized towel over my arm, I grab my sunglasses and keys from the hall credenza.

Outside, the scent of freshly cut grass hits my face. I inhale deeply. I need fresh air to process that phone call.

I arrive on the pool deck in time to see Diana gliding through the air.

Literally.

A guy with jet-black hair and bronzed skin is lifting her up by her calves, twirling them both around while Diana’s arms are stretched high above her in a V pose. It’s like some weird form of water dancing.

When Diana notices me, she makes a face and jumps out of the guy’s arms, landing in the water with a splash.

“No,” she growls as she heaves herself out of the pool. Her wet ponytail hangs over one shoulder. She’s in a red two-piece, the top resembling a sports bra and the bottoms tiny booty shorts.

Je-sus. Her body is ridiculous. Toned to high heaven, without an ounce of fat on her. Female athletes are so hot.

“Tuesdays are my pool day,” Diana declares.

“That’s not a rule,” I answer cheerfully.

“It is now.”

“You can’t invent new Dixon rules whenever you want.” I suddenly notice the tripod and smartphone set up in front of the pool. “What the hell’s going on here?”

As if remembering the camera, she stomps over to turn it off, dripping water all over the concrete.

“We’re rehearsing,” she says haughtily, “and Shanes aren’t allowed. Especially on Tuesdays, which are my pool days.”

I turn toward the guy in the water, who’s watching us in amusement. I wave. “I’m Shane.”

“Kenji,” he calls back.

“Don’t befriend my partner,” Diana orders.

Grinning, I drop my towel and keys on a nearby lounge chair. Everything about this apartment complex is lit, but the pool area tops everything. Rows of loungers, a gathering area with tables and chairs, a frickin’ pizza oven. And these red-and-white-striped umbrellas are bomb.

I slide my shades on. “So what are we rehearsing for?”

“None of your business.”

Once again, I seek out Kenji because he seems more level-headed. “NUABC,” he supplies.

“What the fuck’s New Absey?”

Diana huffs in annoyance. “It’s the National Upper Amateur Ballroom Championships.”

“You say that like I’m supposed to know what it is—” I stop. “Wait, actually I do know what that is.”

“Bullshit.”

“Seriously. My ex competes.”

She eyes me suspiciously. “Who’s your ex?”

“Lynsey Whitcomb.”

“Oh, I remember her,” Kenji tells Diana as he does a lazy backstroke. “She and her partner placed third in the American Nine last year.”

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