Page 24 of Forging Darkness

“Stop.”

Another finger ticks up. “Two.”

“This isn’t funny.”

The curled corner of his mouth says that it is to him. “Thr—”

“Ahh!” I bolt toward the girls’ locker room before Steel can pounce. The sound of my feet slapping on the porcelain tile almost drowns out his deep chuckle.

It takes me a good five minutes to work up the courage to leave the safety of the bathroom. Ash’s swimsuit isn’t scandalous by any means—all my important bits are covered—but I feel close to naked in the two-piece. A likely bi-product of not having spent any amount of time in a swimsuit.

I shove open the door to find Steel lounging on a chair, eyes closed, chest bare, with his arms behind his head as if he’s sunning himself. His posture so relaxed, jealousy bubbles inside me. If only I could be as comfortable in my own skin.

“I was beginning to wonder if you were going to need help putting on your suit.”

“Ha ha. In your dreams.”

Tipping his head back he gives me a once over. “You absolutely will be wearing that pink number in my dreams.”

I cross my arms over my chest and shoot him a look. “Cut it out. You sound like a sleazeball when you say stuff like that . . . or Sterling.”

A single eyebrow arches as he shoves to his feet. “Good point.”

I’m absolutely not staring at his ripped chest and abs. Nope. Not me.

Taking three large steps, he launches into the air, drawing his knees toward his chest and wrapping his hands around his shins. His body crashes into the water with a slap, shooting liquid into the air and causing a small tidal wave to crest over the pool’s lip.

The puddle on the ground reaches my toes. I curl them when wetness kisses the tips. The water feels warm, but a chill works its way up my body.

Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea.

Steel surfaces with a grin. His hair flops over his forehead, and rather than reaching up to brush it away, he jerks his head and the wet strands fling to the side.

“No second thoughts,” he says, as if reading my mind. “You’re already committed.”

“Under duress,” I say, giving myself a mental pep-talk.Okay, Emberly. You’ve got this. Lots of people swim without drowning. It’s just water. You drink it and bathe in it every day. This is totally not a big deal.

Tiptoeing to the edge of the pool, I lower myself, sitting primly on the perimeter. My arms tremble, but I cover the movement quickly. Dipping one foot into the water, I let it sink. Coolness slides up my leg as it submerges. The water is just a touch colder than my body temperature. I tentatively dunk my other limb and try to relax—a physical impossibility.

Steel treads water in front of me, but with a few powerful strokes he’s at my side, folding his long arms on the ledge to my left. His bicep brushes my thigh as he settles, and I pretend not to notice.

“So what’s your issue with water?”

The bluntness of the question throws me. Steel and I are good at dancing around topics, experts at building emotional walls. I’m not sure I’m ready to reveal this part of my history to him.

Vulnerability makes me twitchy.

“I like water just fine,” I hedge. “From a distance.”

Steel studies me, taking in my rigid body and inability to meet his eyes. “It’s more than just not knowing how to swim, isn’t it?”

Give this guy a gold star.

“Something happened to make you afraid.”

A brittle laugh rattles my chest. “Do you mean the time I almost drowned when I got swept downriver during flood season, or when I slipped into the community pool and the lifeguard pretended not to see me?”

Steel’s bicep bumps against my leg again as he suddenly tenses up, but I don’t pay it any mind. My mouth is on verbal vomit mode.

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