ANNIE

I step outside of the locker room, and of course, I find my answer.

It can be worse.

There’s a room full of supermodels—or, what I would classify as soccer moms of the Beverly Hills variety—waiting to get in the pool. I inch onto the deck, scan the crowd of women there, and freeze.

I double back to read the sign on the door to make sure I’m in the right spot. Sure enough, there it is in big, bold letters: Adult Beginner Swim Lessons.

I slide back into the crowd, glancing around for another kindred spirit. Someone who doesn’t have Botox in their forehead or a slinky bikini that wouldn’t hold half my boob. I’m not fat by any means, but I’m not athletic either—I’m just sort of average, and I’d be popping out of those flimsy triangles the Model-Moms are sporting.

Finally, I spy another woman who looks just as confused as I feel. She’s also wearing a one-piece, which means we’re probably on the same team, a team called I don’t want to be here. Sidling over, I assess her briefly and offer a polite smile. She’s Asian, probably ten years older than me, with a quick grin and a pleasant expression.

“Hi,” I say once we’re shoulder to shoulder. “Are you here for swimming lessons?”

Her brown eyes flick toward me, warm and bright with a hidden smile behind them. “I thought so, but I’m starting to feel like I stumbled into the Miss Universe pageant.”

“You and me both,” I say. “What is going on here? I thought this was just a stupid YMCA class.”

“Me too!” She laughs and extends a hand. “I’m Leigh. I’m only here because my kids made me sign up. I’m making my oldest register for swim lessons, and he’s too smart for his own good. Asked why he needed to learn how to swim if his mother didn’t know how.”

“So you’re practicing what you preach?”

She exhales. “Kids.”

“Well, I’m here because of my mom.”

Leigh gives me a look. “Did she pick out the suit?”

“Unfortunately. She also picked out the fiancé who wants to get married on a stupid boat.”

“And she’s terrified you’ll drown when you get drunk at the reception and salsa dance off the plank.”

“Something like that.”

“Planning a funeral so soon after a wedding wouldn’t be a great start to a marriage,” she says with a tinkling laugh. “As a fellow mother, I understand where she’s coming from.”

I’m grinning too. I like Leigh, even if she’s siding with my mother. “She’s well-intentioned.”

“You’ll understand when you have kids of your own,” Leigh says. “Unless you have them already?”

I’m about to tell her that there’s no way I can take care of anyone else at this stage of my life. I’m a senior in college, graduating after this semester with plans to continue to law school. I’m lucky if I can feed myself most of the time, let alone a child.

However, before I can tell her all this, I’m silenced by a collective gasp from the supermodel moms.

“I guess this is it?” Leigh whispers, straining on tiptoes to see over the crowd. “The moment we’ve all been waiting for. You’re taller than me. Can you see anything?”

“No, nothing...”

Nothing except for a sea of fake chests that’d been blown up by talented plastic surgeons, and multiple sets of lips that’d seen the same fate. There’s even a man who’s shiny all over, as if he’s waxed and bathed in oil, wearing nothing but a Speedo.

“I mean, there’s lots of skin to see,” I clarify. “But nothing else.”

Leigh snickers next to me. “I have to confess, I almost tried to pay off the swimming teacher for a certificate that said I passed. But I figure my kid would smell a lie.”

“Me too! Except, minus the kid and add my mother,” I say, and we bond with another smile. “She’s actually upstairs with my Gran right now. They have a—”

Leigh taps my arm. “Look! There. Can you see anything?”

I stop mid-sentence and raise onto my toes. I’m about to tell Leigh that the only thing I’ve spotted is a bad bikini wax on the woman to the left when my eyes lock on the target of everyone else’s attention.

It’s not a thing, so much as it’s a him. But him isn’t a term that does the man walking toward us justice. He’s an impressive specimen, sculpted like an athlete. From what I can see of his body, it’s gorgeous, more deity-like than man—although, when he turns his face upward, it’s not beautiful in the traditional sense.

He’s rugged, almost dangerous with a scar that cuts across his eyebrow and a mess of black hair combed back from his face. One strand has broken loose and hangs a little low over his eyebrow, and it’s just enough to give him a burst of humanity that has my stomach twisting in knots.

His eyes rake over the crowd, and if I’m not mistaken, he looks pissed. He stands still, tall, which causes his torso to show off the lean muscle he’s sculpted from years of... something. I’m not sure if the man works out or if he was gifted that body from God, but something is working. There are lines that I never knew existed across his abs.

Then, there are his arms. One arm is a complete sleeve of tattoos—shoulder to wrist. I’ve never been a tattoo sort of girl. I’m pretty vanilla when it comes to guys, if I’m honest. Maybe because those are the only ones I seem to attract. I can count the number of boyfriends I’ve had on one finger—my middle one—and he definitely didn’t look like the guy before us.

“I’m guessing by the stars in your eyes that you’re single?” Leigh’s grinning at me as I glance her way. “That’s the look of insta-lust.”

I realize my mouth is slightly open. “No, of course not. He’s not my type.”

“I figured. He’s their type.” Leigh nods toward the group before us. “I can see that hiring Cohen on to be the swim lesson instructor brought in serious cash for the Y. Not a bad idea for a fundraiser.”

“You know him?”

She gives me a dumbfounded stare. “Of course. They gave us a slip of paper about it when we signed up for the class.”

I close my eyes and massage my forehead with a hand. “Of course they did.”

“Your mom didn’t tell you?”

“Not a word.”

“Cohen James plays for the Minnesota Stars. The only reason I know this is because my son asked me to get his autograph.”

“Stars... that’s hockey?”

“So they say. I was never a sports girl until I had kids, and now it’s all I hear about. My son says he can’t read a book, but he has no trouble reading and pronouncing the name on every sports card he can find. I’m telling you—too smart.”

“So what’s the deal with this class? Shouldn’t he be... I don’t know, skating around or whatever?”

Leigh smirks. “He should be. But according to the papers, our buddy Cohen doesn’t often do what he should be doing.”

“Troublemaker?”

“To put it lightly. That’s what landed him here. At least, that’s what the rumors say. Of course, the papers are saying that he’s doing it as a charity event to help the YMCA out, but... I can’t believe that’s true.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m betting his agent told him to clean up his act, otherwise he’s not going to be lacing up his skates next season,” Leigh says, her voice a whisper now. “He’s been in trouble on more than one occasion this season alone. His last team traded him—the LA Lightening—because of behavior issues. I think.”

“Yikes.”

“Yep. And I’m betting his coach—or someone—told him to give up the late nights, the parties, the excess, and do something wholesome or he’s off the team.”

“So he picked swimming lessons?”

“It may not have been his pick. Good press opportunity, though. Who knows. If we ever get started with this class, maybe we can ask.”

Mr. James quiets the room by raising a hand. My eyes lock on his tattoos, follow the marks up past his sculpted shoulder to a face that’s darkened with a wry smile, to eyes that are fixed... Oh, no. Please, no.

His eyes are fixed on me, and it’s not hard to guess why. My swimming suit is blinding in all of its lime-green glory.

“Annie Plymouth?” he calls in a gravelly, world-worn sort of voice. From the slight lilt, I’m guessing it’s not the first time he’s said my name, and he’s scanning the crowd for a sign of recognition. “Is there an Annie here?”

Unfortunately, I can’t seem to find my voice. It appears to have gone missing the second Cohen said my name. Thankfully, Leigh puts the pieces together and clasps her thin hand around my wrist, raising it high.

“Here!” she squeaks for me.

I nod vigorously, ignoring the stares from the rest of the women. They’ve got this sort of oddly-fascinated look on their faces as they watch me, scan my suit, and shake their heads. It’s an expression of pity, as if I’m so out of their league that I’m not even considered competition.

Which is true, I guess. I’m not competing for anything.

One of the women murmurs to her friend while staring in my direction, and I can make out something about my suit. Specifically, words that sound like toxic waste.

My face blooms a bright red, and I lower my hand, stepping behind a taller woman who is more than happy to block my face. It doesn’t, however, block the sound of Cohen’s voice booming through the pool room.

“Love the attire, Annie. It suits you.”

I look at him, a blank expression on my face. “Suits me?”

He grins, and it’s a sexy, lopsided smile that boils my insides. “I like it. Now, is there a Leigh here?”

As my newfound friend raises her hand, I’m left to ponder what the hell Cohen meant when he said my attire suits me. I mean, toxic waste and alien vomit are the two things this suit brings to mind, and neither are great comparisons.

I’m still debating whether or not I should be offended when I catch a glimpse of the woman who’d been bad-mouthing my ruffles. She’s glaring at me now, and it gives me an odd sense of satisfaction.

The lady’s suit is black and boring, like really thick floss tied together across her chest. I smile back blandly, forgiving my mother somewhat for the horrid color of this thing.

My smile disappears the next second, however, when Cohen James calls for everyone to get into the water.

All thoughts of sexy men, tattoos, and surgically enhanced body parts leave my mind. I’m frozen stiff, and I can’t bring myself to take one more step into the pool area.

The rest of the group seems more than happy to take flying leaps off the edge of the wall. There are women swan-diving and cannon-balling and dipping one dainty toe into the water all seductive and smooth. Meanwhile, I’m stuck like a snowman on the ledge, trying not to melt into a puddle.

“Annie, is it?” The instructor’s soft voice breaks through my fog of uncertainty. “I’m Cohen. Nice to meet you.”

I nod at him. Completely mute.

“It’s okay,” he says, his voice like a rocky beach—rough at times, but also smooth, cool and steady. “If you’re not ready to get in, that’s okay. I need help with the first exercise, anyway. Can you come over here with me?”

I follow him like a robot, slipping a little on the wet deck. He holds out a hand and links his arm around mine. As we stroll, I catch a glimpse of the same woman who’d been talking smack about my suit. If she looked annoyed before, she’s murderous now. I’m too terrified of slipping into the pool to find any satisfaction in it at all.

My breath comes in short spurts while my heart is speeding a million miles an hour. It’s all I can do to make it to the side of the pool as Cohen calls out for the group to give him their best five-hundred-yard swim—in any style the group prefers. He’ll select the winners for a prize after.

“What’s the prize?” I ask, when he turns to me. “Also, I think I’m in the wrong place. I thought this was for newbies. Adults who don’t know how to swim.”

We turn together and watch rows of swimmers flying up and down the lanes. Only one or two of them look like they’re struggling at all. One of them is Leigh, and I give her an encouraging thumbs up.

“Just you wait, sweetheart.”

We both freeze as he uses the nickname. Me, because it’s the last thing I expect to hear from him.

“Shit. I should be more professional.” He runs a hand through his hair, looking frustrated. “Any chance we can forget I called you sweetheart?”

“Sure thing, baby,” I say. Then I clap a hand over my mouth. I have no idea where that came from. It was filled with sarcasm, but I’m not that girl—I’m not the girl who flirts with her gorgeous instructor. I’m the girl who’s drowning and blinking water out of her eyes. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to say that.”

He’s smiling when I brave a glance at him. It’s a quirky smile. His nose is a little too big, and there’s a small bump there, as if he’d been clocked hard with a hockey puck. But his features come together in a way that makes me stare longer, falling a little deeper into those glittering pools of green.

“I knew I liked you the second you walked in, sweetheart,” he says. “Now, let’s get to the fun stuff.”