Page 28 of Headstrong Like Us
Fuck, the air is humid and sticky in here—but I’ll take it. Because the entire place smells like pool and orange peels. Chlorine and citrus.
It’s become my favorite scent.
Young kids dive for rings in the four-foot end. Whistle around his neck, Maximoff wades in water and helps a girl who struggles to dip under the surface.
I smile, and then my boots slow on the wet tile.
What the fuck? I pop a bubble in my mouth before biting down hard. The dishwater-blond bodyguard is standing next to a bin of water wings and pool floaties. He looks around my age, my height.
Not strange.
A wolf tattoo covers his right bicep, and he has a dermal piercing on his cheekbone and wears Doc Martens and a Metallica muscle shirt.
Also, not that strange.
But I’ve never met him. Definitely wasn’t the one to help train him, and in the amount of time I’ve been looking at this fucker, his eyeballs haven’t swept anything other than Maximoff.
He’s new.
He’s green.
I can’t tell if I’m being a territorial asshole and this dermal-pierced guy thinks he’s doing his job or if he’s actually checking out my fiancé.
I fit in my earpiece with my free hand and near the temp. Gossiping parents pretend to watch their kids from a row of bleachers, and as I cross in front of them, their attention plasters to me.
Some women slyly snap photos beneath their purses, and I don’t give a shit. Maximoff doesn’t care about money-shots or fan pics, so they’re not breaking the NDAs they signed.
I stop next to this dermal-pierced guy, and he hasn’t acknowledged my existence yet. My narrowed gaze shifts from him to Maximoff, who’s too busy with his actual job to notice the temp.
“What’s your name?” I ask him, my rough voice deeper and coarser.
His brows bounce, then he tips his head slightly to me. “Owen Erickson.” He extends his hand.
I shake, my grip tighter than usual.
He finally plants his fucking eyes on me. “Farrow, right?”
I raise my brows at Owen. “Yeah, and I don’t know what you’ve learned yet, but you need to be watching the entrances, exits, and the parents. Not just the client.” I nail a threat into him, and I’m used to temps cowering.
He hardly bats an eye.
Shit, not flinching at intimidation makes him a better bodyguard. But I still can’t gauge his intentions.
“I was doing all of that too. Maybe you just didn’t see me,” Owen says and digs in his pocket. “You’re relieving me?”
“Yeah.” I’ve been glancing between him and the parents, who’ve been known to snap photos of Maximoff in his tight Speedo while he’s teaching.
He nods. “Sweet. See you around, Farrow.” He smiles, one that borderlines a come-on. His eyes flit towards my mouth for a split-second before he leaves for the exit.
I grind my gum, my stance cautious and tense.
I consider myself really good at reading suggestions from men. But I replay that, and I have a hard time deciphering the flirtation. It could exist as easily as it couldn’t. Because the “wow, you’re famous” face is adjacent to the “wow, you’re hot; I want to fuck you” face.
Owen whatever-the-fuck ejects from my head about the same time that Maximoff hoists himself out of the pool, the swim class ending.
My mouth curves up. Beads of water track down his carved abs and V-line, and he pushes his soaked hair back, his tongue wetting his lips.
Damn.
