Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 94460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Yes, the building had rules but I wasn’t a tyrant.
When the head disappeared under the surface again, I rose in my seat slightly to see the dark figure sliding effortlessly through the illuminated blue water toward the opposite end of the pool. Instead of swimming normal laps on the surface using a butterfly or freestyle stroke, he—I thought it was a he—stayed underwater.
To strengthen their lungs? I had no idea.
The head popped up again at the far side of the pool, then disappeared once more as the person made their way to the end closest to me. Where I sat wasn’t close enough to make out who it was until that person was done or I approached the edge myself because the only lights used on the rooftop at this time of night were the string lights. They hung from the six pergolas with the retractable canopies I’d had installed around the pool to give the outdoor area a more resort-like atmosphere. They were also wound around the top rail of the roof’s perimeter.
The previous pool had to be completely rehabbed, so I had installed a heater to extend the swimming season. Having both a heater and underwater lights along with the length of the four-foot-deep pool made it a popular feature that attracted renters.
Tenants who usually used it for exercise either swam early mornings or late evenings. Residents who used it for fun or to cool off in the humid summer heat tended to swim during the day.
I took another long sip, the eighteen-year-old scotch sliding smoothly down my throat. But it wasn’t The Macallan that warmed my gut.
It was the man emerging from the water and climbing the wide underwater steps at my end of the pool.
He was wet. Slick. As the water sheeted off his skin, it left behind a sheen and a shimmer due to the little white lights overhead.
Tate had been lanky in college, but in shape.
He was no longer lanky. The college boy I fell in love with was now a man. Even though he had filled out, his body fat was pretty non-existent. The ripple of his muscles were visible under a too thin layer of flesh as he strode over to a lounge chair where his towel had been thrown.
Apparently, I had missed that obvious piece of evidence of not being alone, too.
I’d been distracted then. I was certainly distracted now.
His wet bathing trunks clung to his lean, long but muscular thighs and hugged another part of him I had known all too well.
For two years, we worked out together. Running. Lifting weights. We would feed off each other’s energy, drive each other to work harder, to push and improve ourselves. Both physically and mentally.
By graduation I’d bulked up, but not like I was now. Over the years, I’d put hard work into my physique as well as my health in general. But my exterior was a never-ending project and I was fully aware more work was needed on my interior.
Right after college, I couldn’t afford a therapist. By the time I could, I mistakenly thought I was over Tate.
The subject of my attention wrapped the large towel around his shoulders, using the corner to wipe his eyes and dry off his face. I watched in fascination as he shook his head like a dog to rid his dark hair of excess water.
When he was done, he paused, then turned directly toward me.
I found it interesting that he wasn’t surprised to see me. He probably knew the exact second I stepped out onto that roof. Unlike me, who had been lost in my own head and missed the signs of him being there.
But seeing him almost naked just about swallowed me whole.
I fought from being dragged back into the past by gripping my glass even tighter, and digging the fingers of my other hand into the thick seat cushion.
I forced myself to stay put and make him come to me. I refused to go to him, no matter how much I wanted to.
I would not.
If he ignored me and left without a word, I’d be okay with that, too. In fact, it was what I preferred. The fewer words we spoke to each other, the fewer encounters we had, the better. I assumed he’d agree.
Once again, I was proven wrong since Tate came to stand next to me and took his time drying off while keeping his eyes on me the whole time as he did so. Once he wrung out the bottoms of his swim trunks slowly and methodically—most likely on purpose—he sat on the edge of the lounger next to me, facing my direction.
Pretending to ignore him, I took another long sip of my scotch, quenching my sudden thirst in a way that would be less damaging to me, and stared out over the now still pool.