What do I tell her? That her father has some kind of crush on me and insisted on sending a car to get me?
But even though I don’t belong here, I won’t be cowed. I am an actress, after all. It’s in my job description to fake it until I make it.
I roll my shoulders back and jut out my chin as I walk toward the pool like I own it. I shoot Ridley a brilliant smile—I’d better, I’d paid enough for the dentist to make it this brilliant. “Oh, there you are!” I say, waving at the other girls like they’re my lifelong friends. “I’m here for the team meeting? Didn’t you hear? There’s a huge announcement coming.”
Ridley raises an eyebrow. “Really. Then where’s Judy? And where’s your little goody two shoes friend, Hattie?”
I continue to smile despite wanting to smack her across her Instagram-influencer face. She knows her name. We’ve all been swimming together since seventh
grade. “Oh, Addie? She’s working today, so she asked me to share the news with her, whatever it is.”
Ridley sneers. “Working. How quaint.”
Sweet Baby Jesus, you’d better take that wheel because I’m about to run this bitch over with a Buick.
The sound of Rushmore’s voice booms across the backyard, and I’m grateful for the interruption.
I turn around to see him standing on the slate stairs that connect the pool area to the back patio through a terraced garden. He looks very different in the light of midday. If heat rippled through me at the touch of his hand last night, the sight of him standing there with a relaxed, regal air as he surveys his palatial backyard has all my body’s darkest places humming with desire.
Rushmore wears what I’m sure in his world is casual summer clothes: a crisp, pressed white shirt, unbuttoned down to mid-chest.
He glances in my direction and catches me staring at his partially exposed pecs, which are startlingly bronze set against his white shirt. The line of his lips curves upward when my eyes meet his. My sex flutters; my breath catches. I need a drink of water. Or something stronger.
Rushmore’s cuffs are rolled up with a certain precision that makes me suspicious. He is not a sleeve roller-upper. Somebody pressed it that way. And I don’t particularly care, because the sight of his tanned, sinewy arms that end in strong, capable hands makes my insides nearly giddy. Was it the left or right hand that stroked me last night in secret, yet in plain view of everyone?
Rushmore’s curled lip changes and his face goes dark. Not a frown or a scowl, but as if he’s studying me. Considering me. Thinking about how to proceed with me.
My nipples tighten; I can only hope my cover-up is flouncy enough to hide those two announcing themselves like a neon sign. I refuse to let myself turn pink under his gaze. I can’t let anyone see the effect he has on me. Ridley would be the first to sniff it out and I’d be completely ostracized.
Scratch that. Ostracized would be the kindest thing someone like Ridley could do to me. She has the power to ruin me.
“If I could have everyone’s attention…” His face changes again. He’s all charm and gregariousness, a mask I assume has been practiced and perfected in the boardroom.
Ridley, being so over her own father, mutters, “Here we go. Daddy’s announcing his pet project of the year. Everybody shower him with attention, please.”
She should talk, I think, as I try to tune out the laughing of all her hangers-on.
“Bob, can you come up here, please, to help me make this announcement?”
The athletic director walks over and joins Rushmore on the stairs.
“Bob and I have staged a major coup on behalf of the women’s swim team. I’ll let him tell you.”
The AD says some ass-kissing things about Rushmore and how he made it all possible. Yes, yes, get on with it.
“We’ve asked none other than Greenbridge’s own Weston Ford to coach the women’s swim team and lead us to our rightful place as state championship title holders!”
I don’t know what these men were expecting, but probably not the sound of crickets. I’m the first to speak since everyone else seems dumbfounded. “What about Judy?” I ask.
The AD mumbles about Judy having moved on to another school, and continues to extol the virtues of Coach Ford.
I look over at the other team members who are here. None of them look pleased. I’m not pleased.
This is not what I want to hear just before the start of my senior year. I’ve always done what my parents want me to do, and this is the year I want to make things bend to my will. I don’t want to spend time adjusting to a new coach with new ideas and new strategies. Swim isn’t that important to me. I enjoy it as an activity, but I don’t enjoy the pressure of it.
Rushmore’s eyes land on me and I give a whisper of a shrug and a raised eyebrow that’s only intended for him to see.
It’s true that Weston Ford was the reason my best friend Hunter and I tried out for Greenbridge swimming in middle school. I’ll also admit to having a bit of a crush on him when he worked as a lifeguard at the city pool. I liked his teenage muscles. For some reason, Addie fixated on his leg hair. No judgment. People like what they like.