We stood in silence for a beat as my words played back in my head—they’d sounded bitchier than I’d intended, not that bitchiness was unwarranted here—then he shook his head and started to turn his back. “You know what? Stuff it. I just thought you might be open to a deal.”

“Wait, wait, wait.” I darted forward to head him off, hands up. “I’m sorry. I am open to a deal.”

“Are you sure?”

Oh, for god’s sake, was he going to make me beg him? It seemed unfair to expect me to accept his blackmail terms without any pushback or sass at all, and I was liking him less and less by the second, but I’d do it. Whatever he told me to do, I’d do it. I just needed to keep the situation contained. I nodded, firmly, and he took his phone out.

“Okay then. I’m at practice over at my swim club before school every day, and Monday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoons we do dryland training. Tuesdays and Thursdays I swim here at the pool. I’ll grab your number so we can organize this without me hunting you down at school, okay?”

“You forgot ‘please.’” Damn it, I shouldn’t have said that. But I couldn’t help myself. I snatched the phone from him and entered my number into it. “Here.”

“Excellent. What’s your name, by the way?”

I couldn’t even begin to stifle my laugh. “You know, usually people find out each other’s names prior to making ‘deals.’ Do you do it differently in England?”

“I’m from Australia, not England.”

“That’s not an Australian accent.”

“As an Australian, I can assure you it is. It’s just not one you’re used to hearing.”

“There’s more than one?”

“There’s more than one American accent, isn’t there? Your name?”

Oh for the love of … “Darcy Phillips.”

“I’ll message you tomorrow, Darcy. Have a wonderful night.” From the way he surveyed me, lips pressed together and chin raised as his eyes drifted down, he’d enjoyed our first conversation about as much as I had. I stiffened with annoyance at this realization. What right did he have to dislike me when he was the reason that exchange had gotten so tense?

He slid his phone into his damp pocket, electrical failure be damned, and turned on his heel to leave. I stared after him for a moment, then took my chance to rip the letters out of their extremely uncomfortable position by my underwear and shove them in my backpack. Just in time, too, because Mom emerged around the corner not ten seconds later. “There you are. Ready to go?” she asked me, already turning back down the hall, the clack of her low heels echoing in the empty space.