Majesty (American Royals, #2)(43)
His eyes widened. “Seriously? You told her?”
“Nina is like a sister to me!” Sam glared at him. “She would never blow our cover. She’ll take my secrets to the grave.”
Marshall threw up his hands, chuckling. “Okay, jeez. You’re talking like the characters from Pledged.”
Sam was oddly irritated by the reference to Kelsey’s show. “That’s insulting,” she said haughtily. “My vocabulary is leagues above their garbage dialogue.”
“Fair point. No one watches Pledged for the banter.” Marshall came to sit next to her, clasping his hands around his knees. “Nice pool,” he added. “It’s almost as big as the one at our Napa house.”
“A giant pool in a drought-prone region? No wonder everyone in Orange likes you so much!”
He smiled appreciatively. From somewhere in the vicinity, a bird called out a few notes of song, then fell silent. Sam kicked listlessly at the water.
“Jeff and I used to come out here all the time when we were kids,” she went on, almost to herself. “We were always racing, or playing pirates, or whacking each other mercilessly with pool noodles.”
She wasn’t sure when the competitive streak between her and Jeff had begun. Maybe it came from being a twin, feeling that she and her brother were always jostling for attention, for space. Or maybe because the entire world kept reminding her that she mattered so much less than Beatrice. Whatever the reason, Sam was constantly challenging Jeff to something—bungee jumping or a ski race, beer chugging or even their childhood games of Candyland.
Marshall smiled. “My sister Rory used to make up these elaborate pool games that involved floating basketballs and relay races and more rules than anyone could keep track of. Sometimes I think she changed the rules mid-game just to ensure that she’d win.” His eyes lit on Sam. “You two would get along.”
“Oh, yeah,” Sam agreed. “If I was playing pool games against a varsity swimmer, I would definitely cheat.”
“I play water polo, actually. That’s where my broken nose came from.”
She looked over at Marshall’s profile. His nose did have a slight bend, but in a serious, Roman way. “Your nose is distinguished,” she decided. “It has character.”
“Try telling my family that. My mom must have tried a thousand times to get me to quit. She said water polo is the sport of hooligans.”
“Has she seen ice hockey?” Sam quipped, and he barked out a laugh.
The heavy spring darkness closed around them, the only illumination coming from the lights embedded in the sides of the pool. Sam’s toes, painted a bright watermelon pink, glowed beneath the surface of the water.
“I don’t know why I thought you were a swimmer.” She cast him another sidelong glance, her voice ringing with amusement. “Didn’t you challenge the Duke of Sussex to a swim race in Vegas?”
“It was the Duke of Cambridge, actually, and he challenged me.” Marshall’s eyes gleamed at the memory. “When the paparazzi got wind of it, his younger brother was the one who took the fall.”
“That’s what the spare is for, isn’t it?” Somehow the question came out with less bitterness than usual.
Marshall didn’t contradict her. “I guess the British didn’t want to hear about their future king betting on a late-night swim race, especially not against a notorious hedonist like me.”
The words were cavalier, yet something in them made Sam wonder if Marshall was growing as tired of his party-boy image as she was of hers.
“So, who won? I assume you upheld our national honor before the Brits?”
His mouth tugged up at the corner. “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.”
“Oh my god,” Sam cried out. “He beat you, didn’t he?”
Marshall seemed to be struggling against an outraged protest. “I’d had a lot of beers that night, okay? And I didn’t have my swim cap—”
“Of course, your swim cap,” Sam said knowingly. “I suppose the duke was more aerodynamic, since he’s balding?”
“I tried to challenge him to a rematch, but he wouldn’t accept!”
She burst out laughing, and then Marshall was laughing too: that low, rumbling laugh of his. It seemed to weave a hushed spell around them.
“You want to head back?” Marshall said at last, rising to his feet.
“Sure.” Sam nodded—but before she could stand, Marshall put his hands on her back and shoved her into the pool, dress and all.
She gave a startled yelp as she tumbled forward. Then the water closed over her head, and everything was suddenly hushed, and languid, and warm.
Sam shot back up into the moonlight, spluttering as she whirled on Marshall. “I can’t believe you!”
“Oops,” he said brightly, and held out a hand to help her out.
“Thanks.” Sam leaned forward, reaching for his hand.
Then she braced her legs on the side of the pool and yanked Marshall into the water alongside her.
He broke the surface with a powerful kick and shook his head, spraying water droplets from his close-cropped dark curls. Sam sensed that it was a habitual movement, something he’d done a thousand times during water polo games. He was still wearing his button-down and jeans, and the fabric of his wet shirt clung to the muscles of his arms, settled distractingly in the curve of his throat.