Page 137 of Deep End

My heart slams against my ribs. I glance away—an automaticgesture, like I’d avert my eyes if a car came crashing toward me on the highway.

“Tell you what.” Lukas sighs, but not in frustration. His thumb sweeps under my cheekbone. “Let’s take it day by day. You’re always welcome, here, with me.” He pulls me all the way over his body, toes against his shins, chin on his pecs. Skin to skin, it’s almost shockingly intimate, even after all the filthy things he and I have done. He’s so solid, he could be my life raft. Already is, maybe. “What time are you training tomorrow?”

“Early morning. Why?”

His fingers skim to my lower back. “Because we have plans.”

CHAPTER 53

AMSTERDAM IS BEAUTIFUL. THE FOOD IS GOOD. DUTCH PEOPLEare nice, even when we don’t speak a word of their language and are so immersed in talking, we wander off and get lost. At the end of the day, in the clunky rise of the hotel’s elevator, I cannot remember what we discussed. Everything. Nothing. Both. All I know is that Lukas took my hand sometime after lunch, and hours later I’m still holding his index finger. That he got a phone call from his team, asking if he wanted to join them, and told them he was busy. What’s the last time I spent a day like this, turning completelyoff? Not worrying about events, classes, whether Pipsqueak is holding a grudge over me being gone?

“I need your help tonight,” he tells me. His fingers play with mine, relaxed, like I’m an extension of his body.

I give him my flirtiestIs that what we call it nowadays?smile.

“I really do need—”

The elevator stops. A giant suitcase appears, followed by a tall, dark-haired man who instantly hugs Lukas. “Hey, mate!”

Lukas laughs. “Only you would show up the day before prelims.”

I may not follow swimming, but I do followLukas, and Irecognize this guy. Callum Vardy. Australian. Big butterfly sprinter. He and Lukas seem more than circumstantial friends.

“Your family’s here?” Callum asks.

“Nah. They’ll be at the Olympics. I quote: ‘Can’t come see all your little races.’”

“Christ, they sound like mine. And you . . .” He turns to me. His eyes are, frankly, ridiculous. So green, they might be responsible for the deforestation of eastern Madagascar.

“I’m not Pen Ross,” I hurry to say.

“I know, love.” He seems entertained. “Pen and I go way back.” His eyes flick to Lukas’s, and then to where his hand is once again holding mine. “We know each other . . . well.”

He and Pen had sex—that’s what he means. I’m sure of it. I glance at Lukas for any tells of jealousy or irritation. Find only amusement.

“So . . . ?” Callum asks. His eyes travel from me to Lukas, asking a question I cannot interpret. Lukas immediately shakes his head.

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Very.”

“What can I do to convince you?”

He smiles. “Absolutely nothing.”

“Too bad.” The elevator pings and the doors open. “Well, this is me. Let’s get a drink after the finals, since you two are no fun.”

He disappears into the hallway, and I spend the rest of the ride trying to formulate an appropriate question, but I havenothingwhen Lukas hands me a can of shaving gel and a razor. “Can you do my back?”

“I’d forgotten you guys do that!”

“Only before big competitions.” The absence of body hair and dead skin cells can apparently snip a few hundredths of a second off a race.

“Who shaves you, usually?”

“Gösta does my back and neck, and I do his.” I give him a blank look. “Gustafsson? He’s in our medley team.”

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