My cheeks flame. “I didn’t need your concern. You should have worried about yourself.”

“I’m still waiting for a thank-you.”

“For what, teaching me how to float and breathe through a tube at the same time? Like I couldn’t have figured that out on my own.”

“You know, I don’t get you. I was just trying to be nice.”

I thrust through the remaining tide and storm the beach like Normandy. My skin is chilled and my lungs pump from equal parts exertion and irritation. I throw my snorkeling gear down on an incline of white, powdery sand and whirl on him. I know I’m being unreasonable, but I’m past caring.

Irritation—at myself for not keeping my game face on, and at Graeme, for underestimating me—chokes off any gratitude I feel.

“You’re not being nice. You’re pulling the outfield in.”

“What?” he splutters, standing with his feet planted in the surf, water dripping off every inch of his imposing body.

“Like in gym class.”

He approaches, gear tucked under an arm, until we’re face-to-face. “Explain.”

“When you were a kid, did you ever play softball in gym?”

He nods.

“I don’t know what it was like at your school, but at mine, whenever a girl stepped up to bat, one of the boys would smirk and say, ‘Okay, bring it in,’ then all the other boys in the outfield would saunter to the infield. You know why?”

“Because boys are snots?”

“Because they assumed girls can’t swing. And even if one could, they didn’t think there’d be any power behind it.” I take a step forward until mere inches separate us. “I. Can. Swing.” I punctuate each word with a sharp tap against his chest. “I don’t need your help, so stop treating me like a little girl going up to bat.”

“I’m not… I don’t…” Graeme scrubs a hand through his hair. Water droplets fling in every direction. “I didn’t mean for you to take it like that.”

Men rarely do, especially the decent ones. But still, too often their actions sting. How many times had I shown up to meetings only to be underestimated? Talked over? Snubbed by my male colleagues while they exclusively talked to one another and ignored the women in the room? Plenty. And I am so over it.

“What odds would you give yourself of getting this promotion? Ninety-ten? Eighty-twenty? Put a number on it.”

His jaw tightens but his lips remain closed.

“You can afford to be nice because you don’t see me as a threat.” If I had an ounce of Walsh’s wile, I would let him underestimate me and play that to my advantage, but I can’t seem to keep my mouth shut.