Even though I loved the water, I was never comfortable swimming with other people. Growing up, we never had a pool at our house, and it was just recently, when my sister moved into her own place, that she bought a house with a pool.

Why couldn't I make myself leave the dressing room?

I dreaded this scene all week, and Druscilla's vocal opinions on its inclusion only added to my insecurity.

A sharp knock startled me.

"May I come in?" Jeanette asked gently.

Although I didn't want to be seen like this, I couldn't be rude and unlocked the door, standing away from it and allowing her to slip inside.

"You've been here a while," she said, taking in the dressing gown I clung to for dear life.

"I don't want to do this."

Until those words escaped me, I hadn't realized how close I was to tears.

"You're shaking." Pity darkened her gaze. "Let me see, please?" she asked gently.

It took everything inside me to take off the fuzzy white robe to reveal a one-piece black costume with its discreetly narrowed waist. The top part pushed up my boobs but, thankfully, didn't have those horrible high leg holes.

"Mercedes, there's nothing wrong with the way you look. You're a little pale from hiding under the pool umbrellas and never going near the water. Trust me. Come."

She held out her hand, but I put on the robe before taking it and following her outside.

Dean lounged on a lawn chair in the shadows waiting for me, and the sight of him dressed only in his swimming trunks stole my breath.

He joined us, helping me out of my robe, and I wanted to hide, but it was too late. It confused me when he glanced into my eyes, and the heat in his gaze almost melted me into a puddle.

"Thank you, Jeanette," Pagliani said as Dean took my hand and led me to the dam, helping me up the ladder and down the other side.

The water was damned cold despite the heat, and I squealed as I settled in the water."

"All that cellulite will cost millions to hide," Druscilla snarked from somewhere outside the wall, and I avoided Dean's eyes as he helped me to the little platform they built on the bottom so I wouldn't have to tread water.

He was taller than me and still had to stand on his toes, drifting closer to me, and I could feel the heat of his body even through the icy water.

"You have no cellulite, and you're extremely sexy," Marcus Gianni, the Italian cameraman, said. "You no listen to her. She all skin and bone, like fish. You curvy like chicken. A real man no want fish when he can have chicken."

Heat crept from my cheeks to my ears at the tone of his voice, and Dean chuckled.

"Hands off, Giani, she's my leading lady," he warned, but something in the way he looked at me made the world dissolve away.

"Man can admire beautiful horse or luscious painting from distance, yes?" Gianni teased, and it was the first time he was so forward, but then again, Pagliani wasn't near, and the sound boom was still being adjusted.

"Don't listen to Druscilla. If you were not so obviously into this fine male specimen, and I wasn't so happy with my cuddly Evie Teddy bear, I'd throw my hat in the ring," Michelle Greer, the sound technician, said, and the heat on my cheeks spread to my neck.

What the hell was this? A joke? Were they trying to put me at my ease? Dean was definitely joking, a man like him wouldn't look twice at a woman like me, but he was a damn good actor to almost make me believe it.

"Will you three leches stop hitting on my actress before her cheeks burst into flame and do your jobs?" Pagliani's voice reached us over the baby monitor he used to communicate with us.

Michelle perched on the side, adjusting the sound devices and lighting props. Gianni was in the water with us, even though his camera was mounted on a swivel, and being shorter than me, he stood on a ladder.

"Mercedes, lift yourself just a little more? Michelle, give Dean something to stand on. I want to see more of those broad shoulders and Mercedes's cleavage; get a little closer together and move a little as if you're treading water."

Gianni muttered something in Italian, and I realized the camera angle gave him a rather unique view. Even though I wanted to cover myself so badly, my hands kept me from floating against Dean, and I would probably burst into flame if our bodies actually touched.

I'd never been this close to a half-naked male, and his effect on me was undeniable. The cold water also affected my cleavage, and he couldn't help but notice.

This take had to happen in one shot.

"Cut! That's a wrap. Get them out of there and bring the towels!" Pagliani called.

But it didn't take one shot because he kept adjusting the lighting, camera angles, and our positions.

That light touch of a kiss, and Arielle fleeing from her growing attraction for this man that was so far out of her league, happened half a dozen times.

My middle toe had a cramp.

Gianni had fallen into the water when the camera boom swung loose from its mooring. Michelle had tripped over a wire and landed between Dean and me, grabbing at us to save herself from hitting the water face-first.

Accidentally pulling down the costume just far enough for my left breast to pop free to her and Gianni's endless delight and my eternal mortification. Not until Dean swam away and adjusted his waders, did we realize she had exposed him as well.

"I really didn't mean for that to happen. Although my mouth runs away with me, I'm happily whipped, and Gianni's all mouth and no bite. He's probably already calling his French wife and apologizing for accidentally seeing another woman's boob.

"She's used to him flirting because she knows he'll do nothing else. It amuses her. She calls it fly-fishing without a lure," Michelle apologized, looking bedraggled in her still half-wet jeans, Metallica t-shirt, and a slight sunburn showing on those sleeved tattoos.

"Thanks," I said, finally seeing the funny side of it. "No one has ever flirted with me or seen my boob. You better get some suntan lotion on those arms, or we'll be peeling off those tattoos, English."

"No one has ever flirted with you?" That London accent thickened with indignation. "Why?"

A month ago, I would have pointed at my body and said, "because of this."

Now, I wasn't so sure. Perhaps that one bad interaction with a boy at ten made me put up a "stay away, emotionally unavailable" sign that I never took off, fearing to get hurt again.

"Maybe American males don't like thicc ladies?" I said, shrugging, and until that moment. How had I never realized how much it hurt that guys ignored me.

"Then they're bloody stupid."

Michelle pulled her hat off, and towel dried her short, bleached blond hair, shaved short on the sides.

Reaching the shade, I gratefully pulled the robe on. My Sicilian roots won out over my British blood, and I wasn't turning bright red.

"Was it that bad?" Jeanette asked, returning from the lodge.

"No."

"A little birdy told me there was an... incident," she teased, glancing at Michelle, who pulled off her shirt to expose more tattoos with no hint of self-consciousness and shrugged on a dry one.

One of the guys whistled at her for exposing her black bra and washboard abs, and she casually flipped him off. Would I ever be that comfortable with myself? No.

"Yes, she almost got to see her first boy bit, but Dean was too quick." Her laughter rang out, and at this point, beet red might be my permanent condition.

"Says who?" I tried to salvage my dignity, and Michelle raised a brow.

"You might as well wear a sign, darling. But there's nothing wrong with choosing to stay pure. We all make our own decisions and take our own paths. Life would be dull if we were all the same. If something feels right for you, it's right for you, but what's right for you might be wrong for someone else. Each of us has our own convictions, moral compass, and core values," Jeanette said, and I considered the words, feeling less naïve and out of touch.

"Except my sister, that woman's moral compass and religious denomination wavers according to each new boyfriend," Michelle said wryly.

(Version 2)