This is our fourth week of writing. It’s been such an incredible experience. And since I told Reece that I was undocumented, the sky hasn’t fallen in. Ana Maria’s fearful existence hasn’t come back to claim Lucía’s. He’s still spending time with me. Coming to yoga practice and making a real effort and giving me a lot of guidance as we reach the half-way point in our writing. Sometimes it even feels like he’s flirting with me.

“Ready to switch places?” I say as we wrap up our yoga lesson. I’ve put off the swimming lessons every time he’s brought them up. But, I promised that we could start today, after a quick session of yoga.

I glance at him, and his tanned, muscled forearms flex as he reaches down to grab the hem of his shirt. “Hell yeah, it’s about time.” And then he proceeds to pull his T-shirt off. My eyes are glued his perfect torso, all that smooth, tanned skin making the blood rush through my ears so loudly, it drowns out the crash of the waves behind us. His eyes are glued to the pool, he looks eager to get in and only spares me a glance when he asks, rather brusquely, “Do you have a suit? You should probably go and get changed.”

“We’re getting into the water? Today?” I croak as my fear quickly overtakes the reaction I was having to watching him strip.

“It’s a swimming lesson, Lucía. Typically, you need to be in a body of water to swim. Air doesn’t have quite the same viscosity,” he responds sarcastically.

I want to run and hide. “I didn’t realize we’d be getting in the water today.” I’m stalling, but I’m not ready for this.

“So, go. I’ll wait.” He has stooped to roll up his mat and looks relaxed, but his tone is tense. I’m afraid I’ve annoyed him.

“I could just do it in my clothes,” I say quickly, and start rolling up my mat, too.

“You’d have to at least take off your T-shirt.” My head whips in his direction and even though he’s not looking at me, it’s like he can feel the protest forming on my lips. “Clothing adds weight and makes moving cumbersome. It’s not ideal. But since you’re wearing shorts you should be fine if you just take off your top. I assume you’re wearing one of those sports bra things, right?” He stuffs his mat into the bag that was lying on the deck chair next to us and stands up fully. He pulls his shorts off and reveals one of those itsy-bitsy speedos that I’d seen him wear in competition.

Unlike then, he’s got a healthy sprinkling of dark, wispy hairs all over his chest that thins into a silky and tantalizing trail before disappearing into the top of his very high-cut bottoms. Beside the tattoo, nothing else has changed—his body looks like he swims every day. His swim shorts leave very little to the imagination.

“Unfair, Lucía,” he mumbles, his voice low and silky.

My eyes shoot to his. He’s watching me watch him and he looks . . . hungry.

“What?” I ask a little dazed, mesmerized by the way his eyes are roaming my face.

“I’m practically naked and I’m still waiting for you to take your top off,” he says as he starts to walk toward the pool, not giving me a chance to respond. Which is fine; Witty comebacks aren’t my forte. And even if they were, he didn’t sound like he was being funny.

I take a deep breath and whip my T-shirt off. I try to act casual, but it’s the very first time in my life that I’ve taken off an article of clothing in front of a man. I can’t believe I’m having this experience with a man who won’t ever know or appreciate what a milestone this is for me. I walk toward the edge of the pool and stand beside him. He’s staring into the water and I don’t speak because he looks lost in thought. I wish I knew what he was thinking.

“We’re going to start with breathing today,” he says, cutting into my thoughts. And then he dives head first into the water. His entry, graceful and fast, barely makes a ripple. He swims to the other end of the pool before he resurfaces and then he flips around and swims at a leisurely pace back to the edge where I’m standing.

If yoga is where I find my center, my peace, the water is very clearly where he finds his. He looks almost amphibian in the way he moves. His muscles move in perfect concert with each other, barely disturbing the water around him. He only comes up for air right before he reaches me.

He pushes the wet hair that’s fallen into his eyes back and grins up at me. “Well, are you getting in?”

I want to say, “No, I’m not.” I’ve never voluntarily gotten into a pool except to dangle my legs or feet in the water. But I swallow my fear and say instead, “Yeah, I’m going to use the stairs.” I nod in their direction. “Can you meet me over there?” Without waiting for him to respond, I walk over and start my descent into the shallowest part of the pool. The depth marker says 3.5 feet. The water is warm, but refreshing after our light yoga workout. I try to relax as I walk until the water is just up to my ribs and stop.

He swims to the center of the pool and then walks the rest of the way, each step bringing more of his body in focus. He stops a few feet away from me and crooks his finger at me, beckoning me to take a few more steps, to come into the water deeper than I feel ready for. I shake my head no, eyes closed. Partially because I want to try to forget that I’m in water, and partially because I don’t want to see the disappointment in his eyes.

“Lucía, you have to choose. Are you going to be afraid or are you going to do this?” My eyes pop open and the air rushes from my lungs. My brother, Julian used to say a variation of those words all the time. He would say, “Faith or fear, Luc. Choose one.”

My heart aches at the thought of him, but it also renews my determination. I want to learn how to swim. I want one less thing to be afraid of. And I have the man who is possibly the best swimmer in the state of California willing to teach me.

So, I take a step toward him. And I can see the flash of relief that crosses his face.

He takes a step towards me, too and we do this, one after the other, until we are finally standing less than an arm’s length away from each other.

“You ready?” he asks and I sense that he’s asking about more than just these lessons. I nod. He stretches out his hand toward me, palm up. I mimic the gesture.

His laughter is unexpected. It’s melodious and genuine and comes from deep in his belly. With his head thrown back, his arms hanging loosely at his sides, he looks like a man ten years his junior as he laughs. I’m not even able to muster the annoyance I should. It doesn’t stop me from splashing water in his face and asking, “Share the joke?”

His laughter dies to a chuckle. “Nothing. I was putting my hand out for you to take it. But you mimicked me instead. It was funny.”

“Okay. Do it again.” The three words, said as one before I lose my nerve.

“Do what again? Laugh?” he asks, his expression confused.

“Hold out your hand,” I repeat. Quietly, shyly.

His expression changes, softens a little and he does as I’ve asked. This time, as his hand extends toward me, he holds my eyes and says, “Give me your hand, Lucía.”

The air changes. I feel it. As I reach for his hand, it feels like a step toward something more than just the hand of someone who’s teaching me to swim.

As soon as our hands touch, I start to fear the moment we’ll have to pull them apart. I know that when he lets go, I’ll miss his touch.

And it’s wrong being this close to a man who is essentially my boss. A man I’m intrigued by and attracted to and who is so far out of my league that it’s laughable. His fingers close around mine and he yanks me forward while spinning me around so that my back is to him.

I let out a yelp of surprise as his other hand comes to rest on my stomach. He covers it with our joined hands. “What are you doing?” My voice has a breathless quality that I attribute to surprise, but it’s also partially due to the pleasure of having his hands on me like this. Why does this feel so good?

“I’m going to teach you to breathe, and I want you to feel what I’m talking about as I explain.” He bends his head down so his mouth is beside my ear. It’s not touching, but it’s close enough that I can feel the heat of his breath on my skin. The goose bumps take me by surprise. I feel my nipples harden and I have to close my eyes and concentrate so I don’t groan and lean into him.

“The most important thing to remember is that you’re not holding your breath when you’re under water. You’re releasing the air you capture in your lungs with each exhale. When you put your head underwater, you should be at one hundred percent of your lung capacity and you shouldn’t come up for air again until you’re at zero.” He presses our layered hands into my torso and says, “Take a deep breath. As deep as you can.”

I do as he instructs.

“Your breath should fill your chest, not your abdomen.” The hand that was on top of mine moves up to sit on my chest, just above the rise of my breasts.

“Do it again and this time, this hand,” he wiggles the fingers of the one on my chest, “should be the one that rises. The one on your stomach shouldn’t move at all.”

I try and immediately feel the difference.

He mumbles in my ear, which is closer now, “That’s it, Luc. Fill your lungs so that you have the air you need to let you make the most of your time underwater.”

I nod and his lips brush my ear with every ascent and descent of my head. He pulls his head away. And then I realize that I’m standing as close to him as I can without us touching. And without even thinking I take a step backward and bring us skin to skin.

I feel the unfamiliar but unmistakable hardness of his erection in my ass for the briefest moment before he jumps away from me like he’s been burned by my touch. Humiliation from his rejection burns hot and fast through me. I don’t just think I’ve made a mistake. I know I have.