Limerence: A Dark Romance (Fated Fixation Book 1)

“Ithink that might be the most pathetic excuse of a jacket I’ve ever seen,” Adrian teases me on our walk back to campus.

I have to crane my neck upward to meet his eyes. “Well, it’s keeping me warm,” I lie. This jacket isn’t doing a damn thing to keep the below-freezing chill from rattling my teeth. My hands, stuffed into my pockets, have already gone numb.

Another harsh breeze ripples through the naked Connecticut trees, turning my cheeks pink and spurring another cluster of dead leaves onto the sidewalk.

“Oh, you poor thing,” Adrian coos. “You are freezing.”

Before I can protest, something heavy settles over my shoulders, and I realize that he’s draped his jacket over me. The beige peacoat must be twice my size, nearly long enough to kiss the ground if I’m not careful, but it’s soft as a blanket against my skin.

And warm – which keeps me from handing the coat back.

If he wants to make an attempt to be gentlemanly, who am I to protest in this weather?

“Is that better?” he asks, and without his top layer, I’m able to see the way his muscles ripple under that black turtleneck.

“It is actually. Thank you.”

Adrian’s cologne – some woodsy, cedar scent – lingers on the fabric, and it smells so good that I have to make a conscious effort not to bury my nose in the collar.

Still, I bask in every bit of warmth I can get, knowing this jacket is probably the most expensive piece of clothing I’ll ever wear in my life. It isn’t until we reach the entrance of the West Wing that I reluctantly shrug it off.

I hold out the coat, but Adrian waves me off. “What are you doing?”

“You want it back, don’t you?” I ask. “Besides, I won’t need it in my dorm room. I need to study up on early colonial settlements, remember?”

“You have the rest of the week to write that paper,” he replies. “You’re spending the day with me.”

“Trust me, I need to write it now,” I counter, “I’m burning out of academic motivation at light speed, and if I don’t do it now, I’m going to find some way to procrastinate it until Sunday night. Possibly Monday morning.”

He rolls his eyes. “You seem to have surprisingly little discipline for someone with a full-ride scholarship to the most prestigious boarding school in the world.”

Trust me, I know.

“Agreed,” I say, “Which is why I need to go write that paper.”

“Spend the day with me,” he says, more firmly this time.

I straighten up. “I can’t.”

“Spend the day with me,” he repeats, “Or I’ll take back the extension.”

I shake my head. “You can’t take back an extension you already got me.”

“I’ll go to Ayala and tell him you were lying to get out of doing homework.”

I scoff, frustration rising like a tidal wave. “Does everything have to turn into an ultimatum with you?”

“If it gets me what I want,” he says and takes a step forward.

“You’d rather manipulate the situation than ask nicely.”

“Manipulate. Convince. Does it really matter if the end result is the same?” Another step forward. “And I did ask nicely.”

“It does matter.” I raise my chin to look him in the eye, my resolve already faltering.

Adrian stares me down. Waiting.

I sigh. “Fine. Alright. We can spend the day together.”

He breaks out into a smug grin, turns, and gestures for me to follow.

I tell myself I’m doing this because I don’t want to jeopardize the extension I already have – and not because there is a little, tiny, microscopic part of me that might’ve enjoyed breakfast and wants to see where the rest of the day might take me.

***

“Nope. No. Not a chance. No way in hell I’m doing this.”

“Why not?”

“I think the ‘why’ is obvious. I am not doing this.”

I turn to leave, but Adrian’s hands settle over my shoulders like a vice grip. “Do you trust me?”

I stare up at him, eyebrows nearly touching my hairline. “Is that supposed to be a trick question?” His hands remain on my shoulders, keeping me rooted to the spot.

He gives me a gentle smile that almost works. “I’ve got you. Nothing is going to happen, alright?”

I swallow. “That’d be a lot more comforting if it came from someone who wasn’t you.” But even if it had, I still wouldn’t do this.

Only a few feet away, the chlorinated water of Lionswood’s swimming pool shimmers under the light, looking anything but inviting. If the stagnant water could speak, I imagine it’d say: come on in. It’s a nice day to drown.

“No,” I repeat. “You are not teaching me to swim. Not like this. And not with you.”

Adrian appears unfazed by the rejection. “You’re getting a private lesson from Lionswood’s swim team captain and a national record holder. You’re in safe hands.”

I let out a disbelieving huff. “Right. Well, last time I was in that water, I almost drowned and your safe hands almost let me. I don’t need a repeat.” I shiver, the memory of being trapped and unable to claw my way to the surface still fresh in mind.

“I won’t let you drown this time. I promise,” he assures me. “It’s a little discomfort for a lifetime of a new skill. Hasn’t there ever been a time you wanted to swim but couldn’t? Think about it: you can surf at the beach. Do laps in a pool. Kayak down a river. You won’t need to be afraid of the water anymore.”

I want to tell him this is far from a “little discomfort,” but I can’t help but think of that middle school field trip we took to Mobile Bay, where I watched my classmates boogie-board through the waves while I sat on the sand, pretending that I’d rather search for shells than jump in.

But it’s Adrian.

He can promise whatever he wants, but I trust him about as much as I trust my ability to sprout gills and breathe underwater.

I gaze at the pool – at the same clear water where I almost met my end.

I never want that to happen ever again.

He’s already watching me curiously when I glance his way. “Fine. But one condition,” I say. “I learn only in the shallow end. I don’t want to go beyond five feet. Maybe not even four.” A victorious smile is already overtaking his face, but I hold up a finger. “And if you let me drown, I will haunt you forever.”

His obsidian eyes twinkle. “Sounds fair. Get changed.”

***

It only takes me about five minutes to find the pile of extra swimsuits stashed in the girls’ locker room. The navy blue one-piece sticks to me like an extra skin, the straps criss-crossing over my exposed back. As good as any outfit as any to drown in, I suppose.

With a deep breath, I tell myself that this will be worth it. I just need to survive Adrian’s teaching.

I push past the doors that lead back into the poolroom, nearly stopping short when I see what awaits me.

Adrian is already in the pool – the shallow end as agreed – his forearms resting on the concrete edge. And he’s shirtless.

You’d think I’d be building up some sort of immunity to the sight of Adrian’s chiseled abdomen by now, but I think I’m becoming more susceptible.

“You look flushed,” he says. “Are you that nervous?”

Nervousness. Yes. That’s why I’m fighting the urge to keep my cheeks from mirroring the same petunia pink Mom tried to paint the kitchen a couple of years ago, and definitely not because I can see the powerful muscles straining beneath his skin.

“Very nervous,” I say and cautiously approach the vinyl steps that lead into the water.

I can do this. I’m not going to drown.

The affirmations do little to keep my heart from pounding with each step, and by the time I reach the metal railing, I pause. “You know, I’m not sure –”

“If you’re not in the water within the next five seconds, I’m going to pull you in.”

Adrian’s threat is enough to have me waist-deep in the water, feet rooted to the bottom, and both hands white-knuckling the edge before he’s even finished talking.

“See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

He pushes off the side and starts wading through the few feet that separate us, but I hold out a hand. “Wait. Just wait. I need a second.” I squeeze my eyes shut and take several deep breaths through the noise.

Logically, I know I can’t drown in three feet of water, but my body doesn’t seem to get the memo. My stomach is a knotted mess, my arms and legs like taunt rubber bands.

“You need to relax.” I’m not sure when Adrian sidled up behind me, but I nearly jump out of my skin when his hands land on my shoulders, his voice a comforting murmur.

“Trust me, I’m trying,” I retort and whip around – only to smack right into his firm chest. I had no idea he was this close, but I detach my nose from his sternum with darkening cheeks. “Sorry.”

Even glued to the edge, we’re not more than a foot apart, and I’m aware of every inch.

He ignores the way I face-planted to his torso, and instead says, “You’re too wound up. You’re not going to learn this way. You’ll sink like a rock.”

Well, that’s something we can agree on.

“You need to breathe,” he continues.

“I am breathing.”

“No,” he shakes his head, “Not from your chest. From your diaphragm. Like this.” He demonstrates by placing a hand under his belly button and inhaling through his nose. Sure enough, it’s his abdomen that expands, not his chest. “It activates the vagus nerve, which triggers your parasympathetic nervous system. It calms you down.”

While my anatomy grade has never shot above a B-minus, I understand the gist of what he’s saying well enough and try emulating the movement on my own, but it’s harder than it looks.

I try at least three times with little luck.

“Here,” Adrian says, and in a blink, he’s moved one of his hands flat over my stomach. I’m pretty sure I stop breathing altogether. “Inhale through your nose and slowly breathe out through your mouth. And concentrate. Think about the pressure of my hand, where you want the air to flow.”

Right. His hand. Pressed against my stomach. Large enough to nearly cover the width of my waist. I can feel the heat of it – of him – radiating through the thin polyester swimsuit.

I have no problem concentrating on his hand at all.

“There you go. You got it,” he murmurs, and it’s only then I realize that it’s working. I’m breathing through my diaphragm. “Good girl.”

A sudden warmth rushes right through me, and I hope to whatever higher power there may be that he can’t tell.

His hand falls from my belly, and when I glance up at him, I expect to find him smirking. Grinning triumphantly when he realizes how visibly affected I am by two little words.

But he’s not smiling at all.

He’s just looking at me, the same emotion in his eyes that I clocked at the diner: interest.

I don’t know what to do with it.

I just know that I need to put as much space between us as possible.

I clear my throat and wade a few feet away. “I feel so much more relaxed now. Seriously. Thanks. Definitely ready to learn.”

He’s still got that look in his eye even as he nods in agreement. “Good. Let’s get started.”

***

Adrian is a strict teacher.

He’s light on praise (not that I mind after what happened earlier) and heavy on the constructive criticism. It’s not enough that I complete the movements effectively, I must do them perfectly. He harps on the details until my form is immaculate – a trait that’s becoming more relatable the longer I spend with him.

Because the details do matter.

Not in everything, and not even in most things, but they matter in art. A poor pencil smudge or the splash of the wrong color can ruin hours of work.

I just don’t have a slow-learning pupil to annoy with my special brand of perfectionism the way he does.

Adrian is probably more efficient than I am, anyway. In a single hour, I’ve learned how to properly kick, paddle my arms at a ninety-degree angle, use the right breathing technique, and tread water with stiff feet – all in less than five feet of water.

“I think,” Adrian finally says, “You’re ready to swim.” Now that I’ve mastered the art of kicking while paddling, he’s retreated to the edge of the pool – close enough to reach out and correct a stray arm or leg if need be, but not so close to be in the splash zone.

I pause my treading to give him a confused look. “I thought I was swimming. You’ve been teaching me the front crawl.” At least, I think so. There was a ten-minute lecture on the various types of swimming strokes and their differences, but I was more tuned into the water droplets crawling down his pectoral muscles at the same time than anything else.

“You’ve been learning the front crawl form,” he replies. “But actual swimming requires moving. Propelling your body from one end of the pool to the other.”

I shrug. “Yeah. Sure. I can do that. I’ll just start in the three-feet zone and swim to five.”

He shakes his head. “You’ll need to go farther than that if you want me to get an actual look at your form in action.”

My heart drops.

“No.” There’s no hesitation in my voice, only firm refusal. “We agreed. No more than five feet. I’m not swimming past that.” I look to my right. “Can’t we take these things down? I could swim to this end and still be in the shallow.” Even as I ask, I know the answer is likely no. The pool lane dividers are screwed into the far ends of the pool, making them likely impossible to remove by hand.

“And here I thought you were conquering your fear of water.”

“I am. It’s just…” I cast a shaky glance toward the dreaded deep end.

“You can’t stay in the shallow end forever,” he says. “That was the whole point of this activity. To get you out of it. You have all the tools for it now. You know how to swim. You just need to actually do it.”

I know he’s right, but the thought of venturing into the deep end makes what little confidence I’ve earned in the past hour shrivel into nothing.

I could call it here and now. Tell him I’m done for the day.

But if I did, I’m not sure I’d ever return to this pool or any significant body of water to finish what I’ve started today. It’s now or never.

He’s at least right about one thing. I do know how to swim.

Even if I freak out, my body will know what to do, right?

And perhaps – and this is the worst part – a terrible, shameful, embarrassing part of me does not want to disappoint Adrian.

As I said: embarrassing.

But just as convincing.

“Alright,” I finally say. “Just to the end and back. One lap. That’s it.”

He shoots me a glance that’s almost proud.

I return to the shallowest part of the pool and kick off the way he showed me, half-expecting to sink like a rock the moment my feet leave the bottom of the pool.

But I don’t.

I’m a little shaky at first, but each stroke propels my body forward, not under – and I realize I’m swimming.

If I wasn’t focusing at least eighty percent of my energy on breathing, I would laugh. Triumph surges through me.

I’m doing it. I’m actually doing it.

I am navigating the water all my own. There’s no floatation device, no life jacket. Just my own four limbs.

I’m swimming.

I continue on, and it’s only once I’m sure I must be close to the wall that I pause momentarily to see where I’m at in the water.

And this is where things go wrong.

I’m not sure what causes more panic – the fact that I’ve managed to make it all the way to the deep-end or the realization that I can no longer touch the bottom because it’s nine feet below me.

My confidence disappears as quickly as my ability to swim.

My muscles seize and tense up. My chest tightens.

Oh God.

I can’t swim. I can’t tread the water. I can’t move. I can’t do anything as panic envelopes me.

I’m going to drown.

I’m going to die.

“No, no, no –” I kick my arms and legs wildly, but it’s not working. I’m sinking. The water is going to drag me down. I’m going to die. “I can’t –”

A strong hand suddenly clamps over mine and hauls me halfway out of the water. I blink through the chlorine clouding my vision to find Adrian, my savior, completely out of the water and leaning over the edge. His hand clasped over mine is the only thing keeping me from sinking back into the pool.

“Thank you.” My voice’s tinged with relief as I grapple for some kind of footing on the pool wall. “God, I thought…”

I thought I was going to drown. Again.

I wait for him to hoist me the rest of the way up, but he stays just like this, keeping me half-submerged in the water – and a new sense of dread creeps in. “Adrian? Can you pull me out?”

The smirk inching over his face does nothing to ease my growing anxiety. “You know,” he says, “It’s such a shame you’re here with me and not Cam.”

My eyebrows cinch together. “Cam? Who the fuck is Cam?”

In this moment, all I know – all I care about – is that my water-pruned fingers are currently slipping through Adrian’s grip.

He cocks his head to the side. “Oh, you remember. My teammate. The one you thought was so amazing at last week’s meet. I don’t know…I think my ego might be too bruised to be much help to you right now.”

“Adrian,” I hiss. “Please. Pull me out.” My abdomen burns as I utilize what little core strength I have to keep from flailing back into the water.

“Hm.” He takes a long pause, as if he’s thinking it over, but I can tell he’s enjoying every moment of my growing discomfort. “I don’t know. You really hurt my feelings with all that talk about how amazing Cam was…”

“You can’t be serious,” I pant out. “I was just joking. I didn’t – I don’t – care about Cam!”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he teases. “You were very adamant about his amazing performance. Said you couldn’t take your eyes off him.”

The truth comes bubbling out of me. “I wasn’t watching Cam. I have no idea how he raced or if he was amazing. I just said those things to mess with you.” The moisture of my hand has my fingers slipping through his, so I dig my nails into his palm. “Please – just pull me out!”

“You sound desperate,” he muses, but makes no effort to

I am fucking desperate, I want to scream at him, but I know it’ll get me nowhere. He’s peering down at me, nothing but amusement in his dark eyes, and I realize that it’s not my desperation or panic that he’s looking for. He already knows I don’t care about Cam – it doesn’t matter how many times I say it.

There’s something else he wants to hear.

“Adrian,” I say, and my voice is steadier than I expect it to be. “I wasn’t watching Cam or anyone else. I was watching you. The whole time I was there, I was watching you. You were amazing. You were the one I couldn’t look away from.”

In a flash, he tightens his grip and effortlessly lifts me out of the water. I plant my feet on the concrete floor, nearly stumbling, but Adrian’s hands steady me.

Although I didn’t drown this time, my lungs still sing for air, and I spend several long seconds just trying to catch my breath. And when I’m sure I’m no longer on the verge of a panic attack, I shoot Adrian the nastiest glare I can muster. “You asshole. You almost let me die.”

He chuckles, seemingly unaffected by my ire. “On the contrary, I taught you to swim. You would’ve been fine once you stopped freaking out.”

“I hate you,” I spit at him.

“No, you don’t,” he shoots back. “You may want to, but I don’t think you do.”

I’m too exhausted from my second near-death experience of the month to argue the losing side, so I do something else entirely.

I reach out, place both my hands on his bare chest, and push him into the pool.

When he pops his head out of the water, he’s laughing.