Page 35 of The Love Haters

He was a rescue swimmer! For a living! And also, apparently, a swim instructor for eighty-year-olds. He’d seen the human form in plenty—plenty—of variations.

What was I really afraid of?

If I’m really honest… if I truly think about it… I think it was just the idea that he—or, honestly, anybody—might see me the way my stepmother had. That he might encounter me out in the open, so exposed, with so little left to the imagination… and find me… unappealing.

Or any of a whole tasting plate of other words starting withun: Unattractive. Uninviting. Unsalvageable. Unpleasant. Unacceptable. Unlovable.

This was it. This was the phobia.

Being exposed, in plain daylight, with nowhere to hide—and then being… rejected. By anyone. Even a stranger.

A beautiful stranger in this case, but still.

I wasn’t afraid ofbathing suits. I was afraid ofbeing seen.

I’d spent my whole life avoiding moments like this. And here it was, happening.

I thought I might die. And then I was disappointed when I didn’t.

Because here’s the twist. Things didn’t quite play out as expected.

The sea of old ladiesdidpart, and Iwasleft standing alone, totally defenseless, with next to nothing on, my collarbones and shoulders and upper arms exposed to the world, but before Hutch could even look up to take in the sight of me…

His Clydesdale-sized dog beheld me first. And then it broke into a gallop.

Right for me. Toward me.Atme.

I’m fond of dogs. I’m a dog person.

But if I thought just standing around in a bathing suit was scary—I needed a few reminders about fear. This beastlaunched itself—lips flapping, ears undulating, teeth unveiled, giant paws galumphing—across the wooden deck and straight at its target.

Me.

There wasn’t time to move or even duck. It happened so fast, we all just stared. This thing hurtled itself toward me—and the next thing I knew, we were both skidding across the wooden deck and sliding to a stop in a heap.

Leaving my beloved beach towel limp and lifeless, many feet behind me.

Not to mention my hibiscus hair clip.

The dog—unfazed—was up on its feet in no time, licking my face while I tried to adjust to the stinging scrape on the back of my leg. Ormaybe it was my hip. Or maybe my butt. Most likely all three. Is there a term for that place on the outer back of your thigh-hip-butt?

The only word that came to mind washaunch.

Did humans evenhavehaunches?

One thing was for sure. It was a real body part—and it was now riddled with splinters.

Hutch was there in seconds, helping me back up and hoisting me to my feet. “I’m so sorry,” he said in astonishment. Looking down into my face with those dark, melancholy eyes and an undeniable concerned frown.

Dazed, I thought of Cole saying that frowning was Hutch’s favorite hobby.

So on-brand.

But Hutch was still apologizing. “He never runs to anyone but me.”

“Did he think I was going tocatchhim?” I asked, now frowning myself.

“He’s a Great Dane,” Hutch said, “but he thinks he’s a chihuahua.”

---