Page 57 of The Love Haters

Which felt amazing for a second—before I exhaled the question “What if I need to breathe?” and then started to sink.

But Hutch’s hands were there to catch me in a flash—one under my shoulders, and one under the backs of my thighs, keeping me steady.“Exhale fast and then inhale again quick,” Hutch said. “You’ll have time. Water is forgiving.”

I inhaled, and then I kicked my feet back up toward the surface, and then Hutch took his hands away. “See how easy it is? Plus it helps that you’re a woman.”

Good god. I guess he’d noticed. “Why?” I asked, trying not to let out too much air.

“Women have more body fat than men do.”

“Where are we heading with this?”

“And fat is more buoyant than muscle. Arnold Schwarzenegger would sink like an anchor in the ocean.”

“Really?” I asked.

“It’s true. Women actually are statistically less likely to drown.”

“Because of the fat?”

Hutch nodded and patted his belly. “That’s why I keep a few extra biscuits in the tin.”

Was he serious? “I don’t think you know what biscuits are.”

“Feel it,” Hutch said, patting himself again like an invitation.

That broke my float. “No, thank you,” I said, going vertical and touching my feet to the bottom.

“Do it!” Ginger called from the dugout.

“Life is short!” Benita agreed.

“Feel how nice and soft it is,” Hutch urged again, demonstrating.

“I’llfeel it!” Nadine offered.

But I just kept shaking my head, likeNo way.

Hutch nodded, likeYou got this. “For educational purposes.”

I glanced at the ladies. They gave a thumbs-up in unison. Then I moved my palm toward him, and as it got close, Hutch pulled it to him and pressed it against the flesh at his belly button. I swear, as soon as he touched my hand, everything shifted into slow motion. I saw his big hand covering mine as he pulled it toward him—and then I anticipated the feeling of his skin slicking under my palm for several suspended seconds before it actually happened.

“Feel that sponginess?” Hutch said, pressing both our hands against his torso like we were bouncing on a mattress. “That little layer of blubber is my best friend in the ocean.”

Layer of blubber? Were we just making up the meanings of words now?

“That’s hardly alayer of blubber,” I protested, my eyes locked on my hand and what it was doing.

“It helps me float, it protects me from hypothermia…” He let my hand go. “And it makes me a really good snuggler.”

Wait! Hold on.

Was I detecting a note of flirting? Was the love haterflirtingwith me?

He was supposed to be all muscle, no heart.

Except, I guess—the heartisa muscle.

Still. It couldn’t be flirting. I’d have to research it later. It had been so long, I wasn’t sure I’d recognize it in the wild. Though what would that search question even be? “What’s the difference between flirting and not flirting?” “What does it mean when men talk about snuggling?” “Should you touch a man’s extra biscuits?”

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