Page 55 of The Love Haters

Who was, as Beanie had foretold… just scientifically… justmathematically…

Very good-looking.

Though I should point out that he wasn’t some bodybuilding, man-chesty, wall-of-muscle he-man. He was just a standard, incredibly fit swimmer dude who was now suddenly half-naked—and wearing swim trunks that I think we’d all approvingly describe asrather snug.

I mean, The Gals and I hardly had a choice. Whowouldn’tbe rubbernecking in that situation?

If anything, we were all hapless victims.

Rue noticed us all watching him, and then she said, “Do a trick for The Gals, Hutch.”

Hutch looked like he’d heard a few requests like this before.

He shrugged over at the ladies. “Handstand?”

They all cheered, and Ginger wolf-whistled.

“Okay,” Hutch agreed. “One handstand, and then I’ve got to teach this one”—he hooked his thumb in my direction—“how to swim.”

“I’m just brushing up on my—” I started to correct him.

But then I fully lost my train of thought as Hutch walked that unclothed torso of his over to the deep end, clasped his hands over the lip of the pool edge, lifted and stretched his entire body up into a straight handstand, and then launched himself into a totally feet-first backward dive into the water.

We all stared as an awestruck group.

The ladies all cheered as he disappeared under the surface, skimmed low and deep along the bottom, like a marine mammal, and then surfaced right in front of me. What on earth must it be like to just live in your body so comfortably and enjoy it like that?

“Hi,” he said, shaking out his buzz cut.

“Hello,” I said, still dripping.

“Do you want to get rid of that?” he asked, gesturing at my sopping-wet cover-up.

I looked down, puzzled—as if I’d forgotten my body was even there.

Then I started trying to unwrap myself from the wet fabric. But all the yards of fluttery cotton that had seemed so floaty and freeing in theair were something different in the water. The cover-up was twisted and tangled around me like wet gauze.

I wasn’t immobilized, exactly, but I was struggling enough that Hutch decided to help out. The ladies watched, and so did I, to be honest, as Hutch moved his hands all around my body, tugging, peeling, and unwrapping. At one point, he held a stretch of fabric up at an angle and unwound me like a top. Then, for a grand finale, he stripped the limp wet cotton up over my head, positively disrobing me in broad daylight.

I mean, he left the swimsuit in place. But still.

When he finally tossed the wadded-up pile of fabric to the side of the pool, the ladies clapped. George Bailey, for his part, climbed up the steps, shook the water out of his fur—and decided to sun himself on the patio.

“I really am sorry,” Hutch said, watching me watch the dog. “I’m baffled over why he keeps doing that. Do you have this effect on other dogs?”

“Never,” I said, now trying to neaten my hair by tucking it behind my ears.

Hutch started walking toward the deeper water and gesturing with his head for me to follow.

When the pool surface was just above the waist, we stopped.

“Are you nervous?” Hutch asked.

There was no way to fake it at this point. My hands were cold. My breathing was tight. He knew I was in deep. There really was no turning back.

I met his eyes and nodded.

“Have you done any swimming at all before?” he asked.

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