I look up at the sound of footsteps on the tile floor. Keats has waltzed in, gear bag slung over his shoulder, ten minutes late. The sight of him hits me like a body blow, knocking the air out of my lungs. His steps falter when our eyes meet but he resumes walking my way. Squaring my shoulders, I force myself to look at him, smile casual, like the sight of him isn’t making my whole body ache with want.
“Hey,” he greets, a bland smile on his face. He sets his gear bag down but stays standing. His shoulders are stiff, and he shifts from one foot to the other. “How you doing?”
“I’m okay.” This isn’t awkward at all. Not. This is the most we’ve said to each other since before Isabella’s phone call on Tuesday night. Does he regret sleeping with me? I thought he liked it. “You?”
He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Good.”
“We haven’t really talked since…”
“Yeah, I’ve been busy. Nine days till the wedding, so I’ve had to—” He stops talking suddenly and I realise, before I even see her, that Isabella has arrived. I should’ve given myself half an hour to talk to Keats, considering he’s always late, and Isabella’s usually early.
“Hey. You’re early for a change,” she tells him with a distant but friendly smile.
He narrows his eyes at her, rightfully confused. As far as he knows, he was late.
“You’d better get started,” I suggest before they clarify meeting times.
Isabella slips off her summer dress, and has her swimming cap and goggles on in seconds. “I’m ready.”
Today is their last exercise session in the pool before her hens’ night tomorrow. Byron’s bucks’ night is on at the same time. But as usual, you don’t see the groom doing last minute cardio to tone up—not that Byron needs it. Instead, Keats’ younger brother is still in Gatton, sitting his end of semester exams which won’t finish till just before his wedding day next week.
Isabella pushes off the shallow end of the pool before Keats is even in the water. He quickens his steps, and slides in. Gliding through the water, he catches up to her in no time. When he is swimming right alongside her, Keats slows right down till his stroke rate matches hers. It’s companionable. I’m madly jealous.
A few metres later, Isabella clings to the side of the pool.
Keats stops swimming and treads water. From where I’m sitting, I have a clear view of his trim body. He’s wearing much less now than when we did it on Tuesday. If I’d known I was only ever going to get one chance to sleep with him, I would’ve insisted on a bed so that I could’ve seen him completely naked. But who am I kidding? There was no way I was going to put it off and risk missing my chance.
“Are you all right, sweet—Isabella?”
Isabella nods, body language tense. He almost called her “sweetheart” again. He hadn’t accidentally called her that in weeks. Great. He’s so not over her and we all seem to realise it at the same time.
“I was just letting you through. Go ahead, don’t let me slow you down.”
“Okay.”
I almost feel sorry for Keats as he swims away. Almost. Mainly, I want to kick him in the balls while he’s down. He deserves the rejection for being a plotting jackass. And how can he walk away from our sports car tryst with such ease? It’s like he’s put his blinkers on and set his sights solely on his ex-girlfriend.
Isabella flashes me a yikes face before resuming her half-drowning stroke. By the time she touches the wall at the deep end, Keats has been sitting and waiting on the starting block for almost a minute, feet dangling in the water.
“About damn time,” he drawls in his Oklahoma accent, the thickness of which sounds warning bells to me that he’s about to go into major flirt mode.
He pulls himself up and stands on the block in the Set position which is sexy as hell with his long, toned body primed to spring into the water.
“Race you?”
Isabella scoffs, smile easy. She seems relaxed around him again. As far as I know, he hasn’t come on to her at all after saving her clothes from a pissed off possum. Maybe he’s lulled her into a false sense of security. Damn. He even has me wondering what he’s up to now.
“All right.” He straightens up and steps off the block in the cannonball position, sending a tsunami of water over Isabella and into the surrounding pool drain.
Isabella squeals, then laughing, splashes Keats when he resurfaces. The water hits him squarely across the face. He retaliates immediately, genuinely laughing and happy as he uses his long arm to scoop water onto her. Isabella clings onto a rung of the stairs on the side of the pool, freeing her other hand to splash him back.
When her grip slips, Keats reaches her side in a flash, wrapping an arm around her waist and propping her up against him. With her so close, his mouth reaches hers in a heartbeat, and then he’s kissing her on the lips like he needs her to breathe. Cold fingers claw at me and rip out my heart. I wait for Isabella to push away from his lip lock, but she just stays there in his arms, rigid, as seconds begin to feel like hours.
A crash and a clatter end the moment for all of us, and belatedly I realise my tablet has slipped from my fingers to the damp, tiled floor.
Isabella tears her mouth away from
