Page 80 of An Introvert's Guide to Life and Love
“How did you know that?”
“Trust me.” His eyes rove down to where my legs are treading water under the rippling surface of the pool. “I didn’t see any pockets in that dress. And I looked.”
The way he says it sends a sudden jolt through me.
“Speaking of my dress.” I hoist myself out of the pool, and he groans.
“Party’s over already, huh?”
I stand up, far above him, and shake my head. “I didn’t get my hair wet just for ninety seconds in the pool. But this dress deserves better.” With some difficulty that probably negates any possible sexiness, I tug the sopping black dress over my head and drop it on the nearest chair. I’m wearing black cotton cheekies and a black bra—one of only two bras that I brought on this trip, but there’s no need for Daniel to know that.
He’s gazing up at me in stunned silence, the lower half of his face underwater.
“That’s better,” I say. Daniel makes a choking sound. I slip back into the water and swim sedately to the other side of the pool.
He follows me, doing a slow backstroke.
“I met a guy from Seattle once,” he says, “who didn’t know how to swim. That common up there?”
“I guess, kind of.” I hang on to the edge of the pool. “I know plenty of people who never learned.”
He shakes his head. “Isn’t that dangerous?”
“Maybe not if you never go on vacation. We have lakes, but they’re freezing cold.”
“You learned, though.”
“Well, yeah. My parents are both from here. We came to Florida every year when I was a kid.”
He puts an elbow on the pool edge beside me. His eyes are a strange reddish blue in the glowing light.
“Did you ever consider moving here?”
“Never. I always had a life up in Seattle. Until recently.”
He chooses this moment, for reasons unknown to me, to take off his soaking-wet polo shirt. He tosses it onto the deck, and I don’t even pretend not to look at his gently chiseled chest, covered in reddish-brown hair.
“Until recently, meaning you had a life until recently? Or you never considered moving here until recently?” As he speaks, he moves closer, and I can’t tell if it’s on purpose or not, but suddenly he’s so close I could touch his foot with mine if I flexed my big toe.
“Both,” I whisper. Gazing up at him, I realize that I probably have mascara pooling under my eyes. Still, something comes over me and I cover his foot with mine, down at the bottom of the pool. He doesn’t flinch.
“Can we talk about how this is a terrible idea?” I say.
“Terrible might be overstating it a bit.” One of his hands finds my bare waist. He doesn’t pull me closer, just leaves his hand there.
“Because I’m leaving soon. And if we start something, it’s not going to go anywhere. It’s just going to end.”
“I’ve heard they have this nifty thing called email now.”
“You don’t want another long-distance relationship.” I’m instantly mortified that I used the word “relationship.” Seems like a stretch.
“So if—just following your logic—if it can’t go anywhere, that means there’s no point in it at all?” Slowly, he brings his other hand up to the other side of my waist. Somehow, despite the bathtub temperature of the water, his hand is warm against my skin. “No point in one night, just because there might not be another?”
I feel like a stunned little goldfish. My heart is pounding, with Daniel’s nearly naked body so close to my own, surrounded by fairy lights and the ripple of the glowing pool all around us. My logical mind is summoning up weak reminders of why I decided this would be a bad idea: saying goodbye soon, possible hurt on both sides, opening myself up to another heartbreak, another man who might prove impossible to get over.
“Because if that’s how you feel,” Daniel continues, “I will respectfully remove myself from the situation. Just wish I had some dry clothes.”
He removes his hands and takes a step backward. And then my logical mind is utterly silenced by the swift decision of my body. I lunge toward him and wrap my legs around his waist and my arms around his shoulders.
