Page 91 of Friendshipped
Right now, we’re the only two people here besides an older couple. The woman, wearing a floppy hat and a beach coverup, reads a book across the way while the man does the breaststroke back and forth in a lane that’s marked off next to the edge of the pool for swimming laps.
Chase’s shirt hugs his body like a second skin. It almost looks too small for his giant, muscular frame. He starts peeling his top off, and I can’t help but stare, especially when it gets stuck halfway off his body, so his arms are sticking straight out in front of him with his head lodged between them.
From my view right now, his face looks like the yolk in a very uncomfortable hard-boiled egg. His white shirt frames his round head perfectly. He’s a hard-boiled egg with arms.
“A little help here?” Chase says.
“Help? Sure.” I squeak, only now noticing his perfect abs rippling beneath his scrunched-up shirt.
I move toward him, taking hold of the fabric where it bunches at his shoulders and yanking. Up until now, I always admired when a man’s shirt fit him snugly, revealing his muscled torso. But now, I’m quite sure I’ll never feel the same carefree appreciation.
Because with my tugging motion, the shirt doesn’t budge. Chase does, however, and he comes flying at me with the force of a jet-propelled superhero or one of those guys like Rob who had the bright idea to test rocket power by strapping one to his back.
Needless to say, we both careen backward, and I land on one of the loungers by the pool with Chase on top of me, shirt still securely in place like a strange straight jacket. His arms remain pinned overhead and his mouth ends up only centimeters from mine.
He wriggles to get up, but without the use of his arms, he’s more like an overgrown eel sliding back and forth, unable to gain traction.
It’s time for action, the kind that doesn’t involve Chase gyrating on top of me with flailing motions. I take my hands, place my palms on his chest—which normally would have been something I had only dreamt of doing prior to this wardrobe malfunction—and I shove Chase off me.
He topples to his side onto the lounge chair and I stand up, freeing myself.
Since attempting to take his shirt off has proven useless, I decide to pull it back down. With some firm tugs on my part, the shirt cooperates, and in a jiffy Chase’s use of his arms is restored. He comes to a sitting position and runs his hands through his hair, working hard not to make eye contact with me.
When he finally does look over, we both sit staring at each other, neither one of us seeming to know quite what to say. I mean, what words are there when you’ve basically gone from work acquaintances to WWF wrestling buddies in one afternoon?
Finally, Chase breaks the silence.
He clears his throat and then says, “I’m not sure I’m up for a swim after all.”
Considering we’d probably have to cut his shirt off to go in the water, it makes sense. Still I have to admit I’m little disappointed at the turn of events and his decision to call off our swim date so abruptly.
“Okay,” I say, feeling stunned into a one-word response.
“You sure?”
I nod, still not trusting myself to speak.
“Okay, well you’re welcome to stay and swim. Or you could come up to my place?”
Considering his fixation on my non-existent thongs, I don’t feel like a visit to his apartment is in order, so I say, “I think I’d better not go up to your apartment.”
“I guess I’ll see you at work then.”
Really? He’s going to leave me here to swim alone? Wow. Trevor would never do that to a woman.
I think I’ve been spoiled by Trevor. He’s always so thoughtful. He’s the whole package—looks, heart, humor. If only he wanted to bemywhole package. And just like that, all roads in my mind lead to the unattainable Trevor MacIntyre.
“Sounds good,” I say, even though nothing about the way this afternoon has shaped up sounds remotely good. And the idea of seeing Chase at work makes me want to apply for a journalism job somewhere at least an hour from Corn Corners.
Chase grabs his towel from the chaise and takes off without another word. I pack up my swim tote and walk out the gate to drive home, resolved not to breathe a word of what happened with Chase to Trevor. Certain dates are ones even he can’t hear about.
33
Lexi
I’m having the coziest sleep-in when my phone vibrates and rings on my bedside table. I open one eye and slap my hand across the surface until it collides with my cell. Scraping the phone across the table top and rolling onto my back, I squint to read the caller ID.
It’s Mom.
