Page 54 of The Love Haters

“I guess that’s one possible outcome,” Hutch said.

“I’m sort of joking—but also really, really not. You know?”

When Hutch spoke again, his voice was softer. “You’re not that unqualified. It’s not like you’re making a scuba video.”

Okay, that was oddly helpful.

Hutch went on. “You can do it. I’ll help you. Tomorrow’s my day off.”

But his kindness just surfaced the tears I’d been suppressing. “What was Ithinkingtaking this job?” I asked, pawing at my eyes. “I’m one hundred percent going to drown.”

“You’re not going to drown,” Hutch said then.

“You can’t know that.”

“Yes, I can,” Hutch said, and then unwittingly quoted Beanie: “It’s a pool full of rescue swimmers. You couldn’t drown if you tried.”

ALL TO SAY:now I really had to learn to swim.

There’d be no weaseling out of this swim lesson—or anything that would follow.

As I showered and got ready—blow-drying my hair, of all things—I formulated a plan. I’d wear my Day-Glo orchid-print caftan in hopes of temporarily blinding Hutch, and then, when it was time to slip out of my new, voluminous, maxi cover-up to get into the pool, I’d create a distraction—maybe accidentally-on-purpose knock over a pool chaise?—and then slip unseen into the water while Hutch was dealing with it.

That could work, right?

But, as it turned out, no furniture had to be harmed.

The real scene played out very differently than I’d imagined.

I’d pictured Hutch and me arriving at the pool alone—facing off like gunslingers. But we weren’t alone. Rue and The Gals were already there, drinking coffee, wearing their raffia sandals, and all seated on one side of a table like a panel of judges—saying they thought it would be “fun to watch.”

We were alsonot alonebecause Hutch brought George Bailey along.

George Bailey, who once again launched into a full-tilt gallop as soon as he saw me in hopes of catapulting himself into my arms—and ended up shoving me backward into the pool, and then landing on top of me in the water.

Remember ten minutes before, when I wasblow-drying my hair?

Yeah.

Fortunately, it was the shallow end. I only had to splash around in panic for a handful of seconds before feeling the rough pool floor under my now-bare feet—and then noticing that George Bailey was standing next to me, smiling and panting, head and shoulders comfortably above the waterline while my flip-flops bobbed upside down beside us.

I stood up, water pouring off me in a deluge, and pawed my flattened bangs away from my eyes.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Rue said.

Then Hutch, looking down at me from the edge, asked, as if I’d know the answer, “Why does he keep doing that?”

I took so long to attempt a reply that Hutch gave up waiting and took off his T-shirt, peeling it up over his head.

I’m sure in real life it happened in an instant. But in my memory, it unfolded in slo-mo: Hutch reaching down to grab the shirt hem, and then stretching out all his shoulder muscles like a cobra before tossing the shirt over a nearby chair, and standing resplendently shirtless before me and all of Rue’s lady friends.

I should clarify: I wasn’t an ogler, normally.

I’d interviewed many, many men for many, many videos—and not had a problem with accidentally ogling any of them. I had been nothing but professional with the quality-assurance manager at Altman Foods, and the VP of the Dallas Chamber of Commerce, and the regional environmental manager for Hanson Homes. I was a total pro.

But this was different.

This was some kind of perfect storm of job requirements, physical proximity, removal of clothing, and… Hutch.

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