Page 23 of Swim To Me

“Is Mollie—”

“The little nugget is fast asleep,” Dad answers as he walks into the kitchen, kissing Mum’s temple and patting my shoulder in greeting before taking his own seat at the table.

“Football score?” Hudson mumbles, a drip of gravy escaping onto his chin.

“Draw.”

“For fuck’s—”

“Hudson Millen!” Mum screeches. “Stop swearing!”

“Mollie isn’t here even,” Hudson grumbles back, shovelling a forkful of carrots in his mouth.

“That isn’t the point. You—”

I tune out the background noise while I dig into my own dinner, the homecooked meal warming my stomach instantly and the gratitude of being home filling my heart. Other than the pool, or maybe out with Delilah, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.

Chapter 6

Delilah

“Is that something you think we can do?”

I blink, floating back into the awareness of my own body. My heart flutters in my chest at the unfamiliar sensation.What on earth—

I blink again, staring straight ahead at the author client in front of me. Her manuscripts lay in bundles across my tidy desk – novels one and two – with her messy suggested edits scrawled in blue ink across the pages quickly followed by my much neater edits, made in bright red pen, and tucked into the margins of the pages.

Her hands are folded as she looks up at me expectantly, obviously waiting for my answer.

The answer to the question I didn’t hear because I’d been daydreaming abouthim.

What the fuck?!

Me, daydreaming? Me, daydreaming atwork?!

“Umm…”Cut that shit out real fast, Delilah. “Yes, we can totally do that.”

My smile feels like wax upon my face.

“Amazing!” my client gushes, too caught up in her own excitement to notice the sigh of relief I let out. Who knows what the hell I just agreed to, but I’m hoping it’ll be just fine.

With my head back in the game, I manage to answer the rest of her questions, smile still firmly etched across my lip stick coated lips, until I’m up on my heeled feet, walking her across the carpeted office floor back towards the glass staircase and the exit beneath.

We exchange goodbyes, with a promise to check in next week on a video call, before I’m stalking back to the safe confines of my office, twisting the lock on my door, and sinking into my leather desk chair, spinning to face the wall. Only then do I blow out an audible breath, dig my nails into my scalp and close my eyes.

He’s there as soon as my lids fall shut.

Grey fucking Millen.

In my mind, pool water sluices down his well-toned body, down his lean abdomen, running along the black, fine line butterfly tattoo etched below his left pectoral muscle. The one I’d caught a glimpse of last Wednesday evening when his yellow t-shirt had ridden up.

He’s like something out of my beloved romance novels.

Except he’s real. I’ve touched him in the fucking flesh.

My God.

If I strain my ears enough, I can recall the smooth sound of his voice, all polished vowels.

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