“Well, given I’m currently broadcasting like a lighthouse in this bikini, you’re allowed to call me Delilah. Or just ‘ma’am,’ if you’re feeling especially Texan.”
The Ray-Bans tilt. I realize his eyes aren’t just green, they’re an obscene shade—verging on gold around the pupils, sharp in a way that would make a lesser woman self-conscious. “Noted,” he says. Then, “You’re on lap thirty-eight.”
If I didn’t know better, I’d call that a soft flex. “Are you counting, or is that something Special Forces teaches you by osmosis?”
He’s silent for a beat, just the staccato rhythm of cicadas filling the gap. Then: “Counting’s how you know when to expect someone to go under and not come up again.”
The obvious joke would be to ask if he planned on diving in to rescue me. But the look he’s giving isn’t about heroics. It’s about facts—about how he’s logged every possible scenario in which I might “go under,” and can’t, even for a moment, switch off that vigilance. I know the type. Raised on discipline and worst-case hypotheticals, unable to believe the world isn’t out to kill youeven when it’s your job to sit poolside and watch a trust-fund brat do laps.
I let myself float, arms spreading, palms up. “That’s bleak, Walker.”
He inclines his head. “It’s accurate.”
“Well, I’m not suicidal. Or homicidal, for that matter. You can relax.”
I watch his mouth, expecting a reply, but he says nothing. Instead, he scans the horizon, taking in the tall hedges, the wide stretch of grass, and the clear blue sky over the estate. Only the staff are around, and right now the kitchen is busy with dinner. We both know this. Still, Cade Walker gives off a kind of heat that feels more like tension than sunlight.
I kick off for another lap, and for two and a half lengths I experiment: tightening my turns, letting my body torque with more power, just to see if he’ll blink. If his uniform tics will waver. They don’t. He’s professional, unyielding, but hyperaware, registering off the charts. He’s watching, yes, but not like the others. Not like he wants to own me or fuck me or lecture me. He’s watching because the world is dangerous, and I am suddenly inside his perimeter.
I find that I like it.
After another ten laps, I haul myself out, water streaming off me in rivulets. I wrap a towel around my torso and plant myself on the coping opposite him, legs dangling in. He doesn’t flinch or look away. Instead, he angles his head, thinks, then speaks. “You swim to exhaust yourself.”
It’s not a question, but I answer anyway. “There are worse reasons.”
“Not many.”
There’s a softness, then. Nearly imperceptible, but I catch it. I pull my knees to my chest, chin propped on them. “You were military.”
“Was.”
“Why’d you stop?”
His answer is a second too slow, like he hasn’t had to give it in a long time. “I wanted to sleep more than I wanted to serve. Needed to be in control of my own time. Turns out, private security’s just a slower kind of deployment.”
“And yet here you are, babysitting a grown woman who, by all accounts, can set her own alarms and dial 9-1-1.”
He doesn’t bristle at the word babysit, which I appreciate. “Apparently, it’s a growth industry.”
I stretch my legs, flexing my toes. “You’re not like the others.”
He looks wary. “What others?”
“My mother’s endless parade of bodyguards, detectives, and ex-cops. They all had something to prove.” I tip my head back, squinting at the sun. “You have nothing to prove. That’s why you make everyone nervous.”
He stands, steps to the edge of the flagstone, and for a moment, I wonder if he’s going to walk. Instead, he crouches—close, but not close enough to invade my space. “Why do you swim so hard, Delilah?”
The shift in his tone scrapes something raw. “It’s the one place where nobody can follow. Not even you.”
“Not my intention to interfere.”
“But you do it anyway.”
He waits. The longer he holds the pause, the more exposed I feel. Finally, I say, “You don’t have a girlfriend or a secret wife tucked away somewhere, do you?”
He stiffens, but only just. “No.”
“Why not?”