Captured(32)

A toe lifts and scratches at her calf; she tugs her hair out of the ponytail and shakes it out, running her hands through it. Another moment of hesitation, then, stretching her arms high above her head, her buttocks tensed, her boobs swaying, she spears forward in a nearly horizontal dive.

When she’s under the water and out of sight, I let out a harsh breath, scrub my face. “You’re an *, Derek West,” I tell myself out loud.

But, my status as a grade-A dick established, I don’t get up, I don’t leave. I know I should, but I’m greedy for another glimpse of Reagan’s nude beauty. Even the guilt burning in my soul can’t make me move.

The water ripples, and her head pokes up above the water on the far side of the pond, hair slicked back, shoulders peeking and flashing as she swims. The pond is clearly more of a swimming hole, deep by the looks of it. She reaches the far bank and holds onto the grass with one hand, running her other palm over her scalp and down her face.

And then she ducks under the water again and is out of sight once more.





*





REAGAN





Skinny-dipping late at night after Tommy’s asleep is another of my dirty little secrets. It’s relaxing, freeing. Exhilarating. Refreshing after a hard day’s work.

Today, a swim is especially welcome. The day was hot, the work endless. My skin itched from dried sweat, and I’d been looking forward to a quick dip from the moment I woke up. Ida left, Tommy went to bed and fell asleep. Derek was nowhere to be found after helping Hank with his barn chores for the evening, so I assumed he was in my barn, doing whatever he does in there.

Except, when I broke the surface just beneath my favorite part of the pond, near the willow tree, there he was. Bare feet dangling in the water. His eyes wide as I came up for air.

I gasped, ducked back down, and held onto the bank. “Derek. What—what are you doing?”

“I—um. I ended up here. Thought I’d sit by the water for a minute.” He stared down at the grass. “Then you—and I couldn’t—I’m a dick. I’m sorry, Reagan. I’m just an *.”

He lumbers to his feet, turning away. Now that I’m over my shock at seeing him, the rest of my emotions are hard to decipher. Irritated at his gall, yes. But also…not as mad as I should be. Not as offended or indignant as I should be. More intrigued than I should be. A lot more unwilling to let him walk away than I should be.

“Wait.” I put both arms on the bank.

The pond is actually a manmade swimming hole. Just a big hole in the ground, a good twenty feet deep with no real slope to it.

Derek stops, one hand on the trunk of the willow, but he doesn’t turn around. “Yeah?”

“You watched me?”

He hangs his head. “Yeah.” He turns slightly, glances at me over his shoulder. “You have every right to hate me.”

“But I don’t.”

He lifts his head in surprise, turns a little more. “You don’t?”

I shake my head. “No.” My throat catches, but I force myself to keep going. “I actually have a confession to make. That first time you took a shower in my bathroom? I brought you the clothes—I should have told you, the door doesn’t latch, and it kind of swings open a little. I accidentally saw you showering.”

“Accidents happen,” he says. “I kept watching, even though I knew you didn’t know I was here. I just watched, like a pervert.”

I’m blushing furiously, heart hammering. “Yeah, well, I didn’t exactly look away right away, either.”

He’s silent for a moment. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” I look at him, and our eyes finally meet for the first time. “So…I’m sorry, too. Guess this makes us even.”

I don’t know how to interpret the look in his eyes. Curious? Nervous? There’s desire, too. His eyes touch mine, and he doesn’t look away. I wonder what he sees in my gaze? My emotions are rampant, confused. Curiosity and nerves, surely. The same veiled, pushed-down hint of desire, like banked coals beneath a thick layer of ash.

He abruptly turns away again, takes two fast steps toward the house. “I’ll go. Let you finish your swim.”

My tongue betrays me. “Don’t—maybe you don’t have to go.”

I’m lonely. Tired. My heart is heavy from long-carried grief. Weighted by sorrow. Thick with loneliness. Coated in a tough hide of self-reliance.

It’s late, and my ability to resist the things boiling within me in regard to Derek—things I’ve been ignoring for weeks—is weak. The knowledge that Derek is not someone I should get involved with fades to black. It’s still there, of course. It never goes away. He’s my husband’s best friend. My dead husband’s best friend. He was there when Tom died. He’s a soldier, a damaged, unstable combat veteran with a complex case of PTSD. I’m in no position to help him, or to take on his issues. My own life is hard, with no relief in sight. I’m saddled with a farm I never wanted, raising a child alone, left to handle my grief as best I can, left to cope the best I can.

And in the middle of all that is Derek, handsome and troubled. Yet he’s taken a huge load off my shoulders simply by assuming work I’ve never had the time to get to, doing the things that are simply too hard for Hank or me. And…his presence reassures me somehow. He’s an enigma, often silent, going off on his own. I never know how he’ll react to some things. Never know what will send him into himself, memories raging in his eyes. But despite all that, I’m drawn to him. Drawn to his silences, drawn to the ghosts in his gaze, drawn to the stillness in him. There are times, when the troubles in his soul are more distant, that he can be totally still, entirely present in the moment in a way that pulls me to him with the inexorable tug of gravity.