The whole idea of Uma joining Sam and me for our weekly swimming pool session had nothing to do with me wanting to see her legs.

Nothing at all.

At home, both Uma’s and my bedrooms have an en suite bathroom. Uma always comes down to breakfast fully dressed. Respectful of her modesty, I do the same. Once or twice, I’ve bumped into her late at night in the second-floor hallway, both of us rushing to Sam’s room because he made a suspicious sound. She wore an oversized long-sleeved T-shirt and pajama pants.

In mid-July.

As for her daytime T-shirt and jeans “uniform,” she favors shirts that hang loose and low over her hips.

Naturally, my imagination has been running wild.

Not that I lust after her, or anything like that. It would be pointless with someone as off-limits as Uma, and I have no time or inclination for pointless pursuits. What goes on here is just normal, male curiosity about the shape of the young woman I see every day.

Nothing more.

Add to that the unfortunate circumstance that it’s been ages since I had time for a relationship—even a short-term one—so it’ll come as no surprise that I keep speculating about Uma’s legs.

As well as other parts…

Right. Off-limits, remember?

Anyway, now that Sam has two nannies—Mathilde for mornings and Uma for afternoons and an occasional evening—I’m free to pursue the beautiful Sophie whom Noah set me up with.

And I will. Soon.

“Papa, you’re not even trying to catch the ball!” Sam shouts, breaking me from my thoughts.

Shit.

I’m supposed to be teaching him to shoot. My son is floating a few meters away, decked out in full gear including a water polo cap, goggles, and yellow inflatable armbands. Uma is doing cheat laps at the other end of the pool. She swims crosswise, admittedly because her poor swimming skills won’t allow her to do proper laps down the length of the pool. I suspect she also wants to stay out of our hair… and firing range.

“I’m sorry, buddy,” I say to Sam. “Try again.”

He nods and throws his junior-sized ball.

I catch it.

We go on practicing until Sam declares he’s tired and needs a break ten minutes later.

I swim to him. “You’re doing great. Your precision has improved a lot since last month!”

“Can I try to shoot, too?” Uma calls out from across the pool.

It’s just the three of us here, which is a true luxury and unusual even at this small-town pool on a weekday morning.

“You want to teach her?” I ask Sam.

He nods with enthusiasm.

We swim toward Uma who’s still refusing to venture from the shallow end.

“First, we’ll practice on firm ground,” Sam says, going all bossy.

Uma climbs out of the pool.

Sam shinnies up the ladder behind her.

I follow, feasting my eyes on her body.

Uma is wearing a navy blue one-piece, no doubt the thickest and most conservatively cut she could find on the market. It stretches over her small breasts, effectively flattening them to a mere hint. The high neckline of her garment reaches her throat, and its legs are cut so low, the swimsuit looks like a prewar vintage piece.

Still, it reveals parts of her body I’ve never seen.

Her legs are slender and very nicely shaped with slim ankles and smooth, lithe thighs. She has lovely, narrow hips that taper to a thin waist. Her butt is adorable. It’s compact and curved just so, each cheek about the size of the ball I’m gripping in my hand right now. If I were holding one of her butt cheeks instead, it would fit just as snugly.

Shit. Where did that come from?

I hand the ball to Sam.

He motions me to stand by the wall. “You’ll be the goalie.”

“Oui, monsieur.”

He turns to Uma. “It’s easy. Just grab the ball and throw like this.”

He pretends to throw with one hand and passes her the ball. She takes her first shot.

“No!” Sam cries out in frustration. “Not with both hands and not from the chest! Didn’t you see how I did it?”

“Sorry,” she says. “My attention must’ve slipped.”

Was it because she was staring at me?

I doubt it. She’s supposed to be into Noah. It’s just my sick imagination.

“OK,” Sam says. “Maybe Papa can explain it better. I’ll be the goalie.”

He marches to the wall where I’m standing and motions with his head for me to take his place by Uma’s side.

Nice show of leadership, I note with pride, bumping his fist. Way to go, kid!

As I plant myself next to Uma, she hands me the ball. It’s too small for me, but since the size of Uma’s hands is somewhere between Sam’s and mine, this ball is perfect for her.

“What you need to do,” I say, “is to spread your pinky and thumb wide for a good grip. Like this.”

She nods, eyes on my hand.

I rotate it so she can see better what I’m doing. “Use your middle finger to adjust the position of the ball and let it sit in your hand, nice and snug.”

She looks up, smiling. “Seems easy enough.”

“Try it.”

Uma grabs the ball, splaying her fingers like I showed her.

“Good,” I say. “Now point your left shoulder toward the goal. Right leg and hip back. Raise your arm and pull it back a little, cradle the ball—arm rigid—and throw.”

As I speak, I show her what to do, and she mimics my motions. When she’s ready, she shoots. The ball hits the deck a few meters short of Sam’s goal.

She rolls her eye. “That was pathetic.”

“First shots always are.” I pat her delicate shoulder before glancing at my watch. “Sam can coach you a bit more in our garden this afternoon if you’d like.”

“Will you, Sam?” She gives him a pleading look.

He beams before schooling his features into a sober expression. “OK.”

I point to the pool. “Now, Samuel, why don’t we get back in there for some eggbeater practice before we leave.”

“Yay!” Sam runs toward the edge of the deck and jumps into the water.

I follow him.

“What’s eggbeater?” Uma asks, returning to the pool.

“A water treading technique to stay upright and have your hands free.”

She blinks. “Is that possible?”

“Of course,” I grin. “How else do you think we can play a ball game in a pool when we aren’t allowed to touch the floor?”

“Oh.”

“Watch me!” Sam shouts to her. “I turn my feet out, like a duck, big toe to shin. Left, right. Left, right.”

She widens her eyes. “Wow.”

“Knees wider,” I instruct Sam. “You can’t jump out of the water with tight knees. Faster legs. Stretch them out more. You want to pull as much water as you can.”

He tries harder, putting all he’s got into his practice. I observe and comment. Uma grabs the rail and tries to imitate what Sam is doing.

“How’s this?” Sam cries out, panting. “Am I doing good?”

I open my mouth to say he’s doing great when he begins to blink rapidly. Then his body starts to convulse.

Lunging at him, I pull him out of the water as fast as I can and lay him down on his right side, sticking my hand under his head.

Uma runs up to us, a look of panic on her face.

“It’s OK.” I stroke Sam’s pale cheek, not quite sure if my words are for Uma, Sam, or myself.

Probably all three of us.

Sam will come to in a couple of minutes, feeling tired and a little dazed after his seizure. Then I’ll take him home.

The party’s over.