She kicks away from me, then shoots a glare over her shoulder. “Swimming! Until you ran me over!”
“Where’s your float buoy?” At least it’s better thanwhere’s your suit.
“Ugh!” She continues toward the shore. With the low angle of the sun, the water is practically transparent around her bare shoulders. She swims a lot, but I don’t remember her being naked. And I would definitely remember something like that.
I swim to my paddleboard and kick onto it, then double stroke to catch up to her.
“What are you doing?” She refuses to look at me, but her breaths are labored, so maybe she’s going too hard to talk.
“Just wanna make sure you’re okay.” I slow my pace so I can stay alongside her. I’ve never liked her being out here alone with no personal floatation for a backup. That’s how people drown.
She gives me a quick side-eye, but it’s more of a scowl. “I’m a certified lifeguard. I’m not going to drown.”
She’s doing the breaststroke, her pale limbs coiling up and gliding in perfect synchrony. The only thing out of place is the white bandage on her fist.
“Even athletes can get run over by a power boat.” Or a paddleboard. “Or suffer from a medical emergency.”
“I’ve been out here plenty”—she takes a stroke—“of times by myself.” Another stroke. “What’s so different about this morning?”
“You’re injured.” It’s a lame answer at best. Because when she’s out swimming it means she’s not yammering at me to be quiet or stop breathing or whatever else she needs so as not to disturb her peace and quiet.
“I’m fine.”
I take a hard stroke through the water and glide, coming alongside her again, though I keep my gaze on the shore. “How’s your hand feel today?”
“Sore.”
“You want a ride?”
Her nostrils flare. “No.”
I take another full stroke and glide, maintaining a healthy distance between us.
“I thought you were on shift today,” she says.
We’re nearing the shallows, the pale sand turning the water a tropical blue. “You have my schedule?”
“It’s not that hardto figure out.”
Tell that to my ex-wife, who couldn’t seem to grasp the pattern. Or maybe she never really tried. “Sorry to disappoint you. Greta has something going on, so I did a swap.”
“I got a call this morning.” She strokes hard then coasts. “Russel’s pressing charges.”
Russel must be her ex. “Why?” Who the hell is this jerk? What is he possibly hoping to gain from this?
“I guess he went to the hospital last night.”
I laugh, then bite it back because Meg isn’t finding this funny, even though it’s hilarious. Pretty Boy Pilot took a licking from a girl.
“I’m supposed to come down to the station later.”
I focus on the nearing shoreline. “Need backup?”
She gives me calculating glance. With the turquoise water framing her pretty face, her eyes look almost silver. “I think he’s filing charges against you too.”
Chapter Five
“Wait, you’re serious,”I say into the phone while turning onto Lakeshore Drive. “Why would he humiliate himself like this?”
