Page 85 of The Best Men
From their spot under an umbrella, my parents assure her that she’s a swimming genius. So does Bridget. Hannah and Flip get in on the cheerleader action, too, as they stroll out to the pool from the house. “You’re a dolphin now, Rosie,” Hannah calls as she grabs a chair.
“My cousin will be too,” Rosie answers, and Flip sets a hand on my sister’s belly as they sit.
“And now you can do that bubble magic and kick at the same time,” I tell my kiddo. “You swim to me, and I’ll catch you.”
“Swim from where?” she demands.
“The wall? The ladder?”
She wrinkles up her nose. Dubious. She clings more tightly to me. “I don’t think so. Maybe another time.”
“Bridget?” I call. “A hand, here?”
“I’m not wearing a suit,” my ex says, a glass of rosé in her hand as she stretches on a lounge chair in shorts and a tank. She’s not going anywhere.
“Grandma? Grandpa?” I say to my parents. But they’re both close to dosing in their chairs.
“Why are we the only ones in the pool?” Rosie asks. “The pool is the best place in Florida. Except for Disney World. So, this is the second-best place.”
I’m with her on the pool being the second-best place. Right after Asher’s bed. And speak of the devil, Asher stands at the edge of the deep end. “It’s a shame I’m not wearing a suit, or I’d swim with you two.”
“Yeah. Shame,” I agree with a smile.But it didn’t stop you last night. My brain offers up a visual of Asher, naked, grinding on my lap in the shallow end.
Asher turns to walk away. But then he bobbles, and one foot slips over the edge. “Uh-oh.” His arms come up suddenly. “Oh God.” He flaps his hands uselessly.
Rosie shrieks as Asher falls ass-first and fully clothed into the deep end.
Wait. Did a professional athlete just fall into the pool by accident?
He pops up, beaming, a clear sign it was a hoax. He did that on purpose, something I like all too much. “Hey, guys,” he says. “Nice day for a swim. Anybody need an extra pair of hands around here?”
Rosie needs a minute, actually. She’s giggling so hard that if I weren’t holding her up, she might actually drown.
“Let’s play catch,” Asher says. “Anyone have a ball?”
“N-no!” Rosie laughs.
“Fine,” he says with a shrug. “Catch-the-kid it is! Toss ’er over, Banks.”
“Great plan,” I say. “On a count of three. One . . .” I swing her through the water. “Two...”
“Daddyyyy!” The shriek is so high-pitched that it almost breaks the human sonic barrier.
Spoiler: I don’t throw my child at my hookup. I wait for her to calm down, and then I ask her if she wants to swim to Asher.
He holds out both his hands. “Betcha can’t kick this far!”
He’s four feet away. Tops. His designer T-shirt is clinging to his ripped chest. Are wet T-shirt contests a thing for men? They should be.
“Bet I can!” Rosie sticks her face in the water and kicks so hard I have to twist my body out of harm’s way. She reaches Asher a split second later. “Did it!”
“Again,” he says, effortlessly turning her around with tanned hands. “Swim to your dad now.”
I back off a few feet, and we carry on like this for a while with Rosie swimming farther and farther distances until she’s panting and exhausted.
“Watermelon,” she gasps. “You promised.”
“And you earned it.” I lift her up onto my shoulder and wade toward the stairs. “Thanks for the help,” I say over my shoulder.
