Page 63 of These Summer Storms

“What do you think?”

She could imagine him, tall and good-looking—probably the best-looking boy in his class, probably born broad-shouldered and overbearing. Captain of some team, probably. One of the ones girls flipped over. Lacrosse. Or with the way he swam, something to do with water. Diving. Water polo.

“Did you play water polo?”

He exhaled, still exasperated.Good.“No.”

“Diving?”

“No.”

“What did you play?”

“Nothing.” He looked up at the cliffside. “Where are we?”

“The back side of the island, past the giant oak.” She paused. “Theater kid, then.”

He cut her a look, a flash of amusement there for a split second before it was gone behind his too-handsome mask and she ignored the little zing of triumph that came with it. “I didn’t have time for…extra stuff.”

“Too busy making your first million?”

“Too busy—” He considered his words. “Too busy.”

Something about the response gave her pause. Something like truth. Ignoring the pang of curiosity that came, she looked to the boat, unmoving despite the wind. “My dad would have been impressed with the way you handled that boat.”

“I didn’t do it to impress your dad. I did it because we weren’t done.”

“Aren’t we?” she asked. “I’m done. I’m done talking to you. Telling you things I shouldn’t have.” She paused. “Or is that part of it, too? Making sure I embarrass myself by telling you all about my mistakes?”

“No—” He ran a hand through his hair. “Yes. I’m supposed to help keep you here. But I’m not the fucking enemy.”

He believed it, but she wasn’t so sure. “Weird. If you’re not my enemy, I might start thinking you like me.”

“I’d never dream of liking you,” he said, the words curt. “I wouldn’t want to scare you off.”

Another observation she would have resented if she hadn’t been so surprised by it. While she wasn’t sure what his deal was—where he’d come from, who he was—she did know that he wasn’t like the other men in her life. He wasn’t goofy and sweet like the guys at work, or unserious and emotional like Griffin, or dark academia like the men from the New York art scene, or born with a platinum spoon in his mouth like the ones she’d grown up with. At least, he didn’t give off the impression of being any of those things. He gave off the impression of being strong and steady and smart…and able to hold his own in a fight, physically or mentally.

He wasn’t the kind of man who made a person comfortable, and Alice wasn’t feeling anything close to comfortable in that moment.

“You scared the shit out of me, Alice. Diving off a moving boat.”

“Worried you wouldn’t get paid if I drowned on your watch?” It wasn’t kind, but she didn’t care.

“Jesus Christ.”

She ignored the way her pulse sped as she moved away from him, staring around the small strip of sand, keeping her eyes on anything other than him and all his edges. The ones in his words, and at his jaw, and in the muscles visible through his white shirt, and in his unrelenting focus on her.

“I’m an excellent swimmer.”

“Yeah. I noticed.”

“Always,” she said, and they both heard the surprise there, the memory of the other times he’d noticed her. On the train. At the station. At the clapboard motel. In her room two nights earlier—when she was naked.

Well. She didn’t want to think about that (at least, not with himright there).

“Fine. Whatdoyou get? For keeping me here?”

Silence for a long moment. And then, “I told you. I owe your dad.”

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