Page 57 of Falling Overboard

I went over to the shore and stared out at the sea, at that color that exactly matched Hunter’s eyes.

“It’s funny,” I said. “I’m constantly surrounded by the ocean but I never, ever get tired of it.”

He came over next to me, his arms folded across his chest. “I know what you mean.”

We stood there for a long time, quietly watching as the tiny waves lapped onto the shore. The sun continued its ascent in the sky and the edges of the waves sparkled like diamonds in the bright light. The air smelled of brine and sea salt and suntan lotion.

It was a perfect moment.

Hunter looked like he was deep in thought.

“What are you thinking about?” I asked.

“I was thinking that I’m really glad I’m here. Thank you for sharing this with me.”

My breath caught at his words. I had intended for this to be a group activity that we would all enjoy but I discovered that I was so, so grateful that he and I were here alone.

Chapter Twenty

Hunter

An internal alarm had been sounding inside me ever since Lucky had told me she hated rich people.Tell her, tell her, tell her,it said, over and over again.

I didn’t say anything and I probably should have. She was going to be pissed when she found out.

But I had never gone out with a woman where I hadn’t wondered whether she was really interested in me or my parents’ money. This was a golden opportunity to see if Lucky could like me without my background overshadowing that.

She had to get to know me first, and she would lose all interest in doing that if I told her the truth. And my parents had already told me I wasn’t allowed to tell anyone who I was, so that made it easier for me to rationalize.

I would tell her eventually. Just ... after.

When we got back to Old Town, I asked, “Is there somewhere we can grab breakfast? That’s hopefully French this time?”

“You’re in luck,” she told me with a teasing smile. “Almost every restaurant here is French.”

I laughed and we found a café that had tables set up on the sidewalk. It felt quintessentially French, and we found a table and sat.

The waiter came over and greeted us in English, immediately pinning us as tourists. He handed us menus and said he would be back.

“Is it that obvious that we’re American?” she asked.

“Maybe it’s obvious that you are. I’m an international man of mystery,” I said with a smile as I glanced at the menu. “Although I don’t even know what part of America you’re from.”

“Connecticut. What about you?”

“New York.” A different server came over and left us glasses of water while I was busy internally grinning at the fact that we didn’t live too far apart.

“It’s too bad we don’t have Andre here. I think he speaks some French,” she said.

“Or François, who is fluent.”

“Ugh. No thanks,” she said, scrunching up her face.

I laughed again. “Not a fan?”

“He’s gross. I don’t like men who treat their commitments as something negotiable. He’s the reason I don’t want to learn the language—I don’t want to know what he’s been saying to me. I only know one phrase in French, and I would never repeat it around him because my understanding is that it’s an invitation to my bed and I would never, ever let that happen.”

My skin suddenly felt too tight for my body. I wanted her to French phrase me more than I had wanted anything in my life. “Just with François?”

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