Her Secret Fling

She kept her eyes front and center as he looked at her.

“Relax,” he said. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Men check out women all the time. It’s basic biology.”

“I am relaxed,” she said through her teeth. “And I didn’t think you were about to propose because you checked out my rack. I might not be used to having boobs, but I know that much.”

She didn’t think it was possible, but her blush intensified. She couldn’t believe she’d made such a revealing confession to The Snake.

There was a short silence before he spoke.

“I wondered about that,” he said. “All the photos I ever saw, you looked about an A cup.”

“You made a note of my cup size?” she asked, her voice rising.

“Sure. I’m not blind. So, what, you stopped training and puberty kicked in, is that it?”

He spoke conversationally, as though they were talking about the weather. As though it was perfectly natural for him to go around guessing women’s breast size. And maybe it was—but not hers. She didn’t want him looking at her and thinking about her like that. It made her feel distinctly…edgy.

She clenched her hands on the wheel. “We are not talking about my breasts.”

“You brought it up.”

“I did not! You were staring at me!”

“Because you changed into that teeny, tiny tank. I could hardly pretend I didn’t notice.”

“The air-conditioning is broken and I was hot and you could have tried. A gentleman would have,” she said.

He laughed. “A gentleman? Baby, I’m a journalist. I wouldn’t have a job if I was a gentleman. Something you better learn pretty quick if you want to survive in this game.”

She held up a hand. “Spare me your sage advice, Yoda. You’re about three weeks too late to apply for the position of mentor.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

“I will, thank you.”

“Always have to have the last word, don’t you?”

“Look who’s talking.”

“Thank you for proving my point.”

She pressed her lips together, even though she was aching to fire back at him.

He angled his seat back and stretched out, his arms crooked behind his head. “Do you miss it?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Swimming. Training. Being on the team. Do you miss it?”

She made a rude noise in the back of her throat. “Just because we’re stuck in a car for a few hours doesn’t mean we have to talk.”

“It’s a long drive.”

“I’m not here to entertain you.”

He was silent for a moment. She flipped the visor to the side to block the sun as it began its descent into the west.

“Okay, what about this? I get a question, then you get one. Quid pro quo.”

“Thank you, Dr. Lecter, but I don’t want to play.”

“Why? What are you scared of?”

She shifted in her seat. He was goading her, daring her. She knew it was childish, but she didn’t want him thinking he could best her so easily.

“Fine,” she said. “Yes, I miss swimming. It was my life for twenty-five years. Of course I miss it.”

“What do you miss the most?”

“You think I can’t count? It’s my turn. Why haven’t you published a follow-up to The Coolabah Tree?”

She could feel him bristle.

“I’m working on one now,” he said stiffly.

“What’s it called?”

“Nice try. Why do you want to be a journalist?”

“Because it’s not swimming. And because I feel I have something to offer. How long did it take you to write your first book?”

“Two years, working weekends and nights.”

“How many drafts did you do?”

“Three. And that was two questions.”

“You answered them.”

He shrugged. “Do you ever think about the four-hundredmeter final at Beijing? Wish you could go back again?”

She should have known he’d bring that up. The lowest point in her swimming career—of course he’d want to stick his finger in the sore spot and see if she squirmed.

She put the indicator on and pulled into the approaching rest stop.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I’m tired.”