Page 57 of Villainous Summer

Once on, I set my bag down and glanced around.

I had been on boats before. Wren’s asshole ex had one he used to bring us on. He would speed around lakes, while a seasick Wren would struggle to keep down the contents in her stomach.

On the dock, Van untied the ropes and flung them into the boat before pushing off the dock and jumping in. Setting his stuff down, he gathered a small florescent item and lifted the bench seat to place it in there. “Don’t need that anymore.”

“You have a kid’s life jacket on your boat when you don’t have kids?” I paused. “You don’t have any, right?”

He laughed. “No kids of my own, no. I knew I’d have to be outfitted if I had any chance of getting Ana and Xander on board. It’s good to have anyway. You never know.”

I nodded as if that made sense, but my mind continued whirring.

He handed me a green item. “Put this on.”

I took it from him, holding it away from me. “I know how to swim.”

He frowned. “Try it on and tighten the straps. I want to make sure it fits you before we go.”

Rolling my eyes, I pulled it over my shoulders and tried fastening the buckle. After pulling the straps out, I tried again to no avail.

When he saw I was struggling, Van grabbed a different life vest and handed it to me. No comment on the size, no joke about how it didn’t fit, just concentration as he helped it slide over my shoulders. “I take aquatic safety seriously. I was a lifeguard at the Ridgewood pool for five years.” He gripped the bottom, sliding the zipper together. His fingers brushed the bare skin of my stomach, and an ache between my legs formed.

Once he was content, he tossed the life jackets into the empty cabin and directed me to sit in the pilot’s chair.

We floated away slowly as he started the engine.

Soon, we were out of the no-wake zone and passing a float of harbor seals.

The sunshine warmed my cheeks as the boat picked up speed, the wind blowing my hair back.

Freedom Bay was glassy smooth as we made our way out of the narrow channel and into the wider sound.

I held on tight to the edge of my white leather pilot’s chair as we cut through the water, the outline of the Olympic mountains soaring above us to the west.

Beside me, Van stood behind the steering wheel, salty gusts whipping his dark hair off his face. He glanced at me and smiled, and I unraveled.

In books, authors would describe a smile as devastating. I never understood that phrase. Never in all my years of dating, of the men and women I flirted with, did I ever suffer more than little butterflies from a smile. A smile could be charming, suave, or shy. But I clung to the belief that I was far too sensible to be caught up by a smile.

Until that day on the boat.

When Van smiled at me, his whole face lit up, his mouth crooked to the right. His gray eyes crinkled at the corners, and his cheeks stretched to show a dimple on his left side.

Fucking dimple.

The breath I let out was shaky, and I had to swallow to fight the rising urge to lick my lips.

I had seen him smile before, with his little smirks and friendly grins. But this?—Oh, this, what he gave me, sucked the air from my lungs.

There was no reason I could know this, but I did. That smile was for me and me alone. The whooshing of the wind died, and all I wanted—no, needed—was for Van to smile at me like that again. To assure me that I was the only one.

At some point, he cut the engine, letting us drift around in the tides. I moved to the back bench seat, stretching out. Without the sea spray and rushing air, the sunshine was balmy on my skin.

Abandoning my sandals, I wiggled my bare toes as I tipped my head back against the padded bench.

Van fished a beer out of the cooler and handed it to me. I popped the top and brought it to my mouth when Van reached behind his head and pulled his shirt off.

I knew he had a nice body, having felt enough of it pressed against me on the boardwalk. But nothing could have prepared me for the sight of him, sun-soaked and strong. A smattering of dark hair covered his chest, and his shoulders were broad and muscular. A faint pink scar about three inches long marred his right collarbone. His wasn’t the body of someone who spent all their time at the gym, sculpted and lean. Instead, it was sturdy. The kind you could wrap your arms around, and it would keep you steady.

With the can almost at my lips, I froze.

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