Page 29 of Seven Rules for Breaking Hearts

“Thanks.” He turned around to face me again, shrugging on his life vest and buckling it, which left only his arms and a sliver of flat, toned stomach visible. “Your turn.”

“What?”

He arched a brow at my clothes. “I assume you’re not leaving those on.”

Obviously, I wasn’t, but now I was conscious of every movement as I stripped off my tank top to reveal the crocheted bikini I’d worn for our partnership with the swimsuit boutique a couple years back. Declan’s sunglasses left most of his expression to the imagination, but a muscle in his jaw feathered as I stepped out of my leggings and added my clothes to the pile of possessions that the rental shack was supposed to stow for safekeeping. I twisted my hair off my shoulders, pinning it to my head with a hand as I turned my back to him.

“Because I’m considerate, I’ll actually warm it up for you,” he said, stepping in closer as he squirted the lotion into his hand. His breath tickled the loose hairs at the nape of my neck. I reflected, briefly, that the sputtering sound of the lotion bottle was the antithesis of sexy, but then his hands found the small of my back, warm and slick against my skin.

He smoothed the sunscreen up my back and across my shoulders before working his way back down. He was plainly better at this than I was. His hands slid around to my sides, working over my hips. He was only doing it for the sake of coverage, I reminded myself, but I found myself imagining what it might feel like for his grip to tighten, drawing me backwards until I felt the fabric of his board shorts brush up against the back of me. Warmth pooled in my belly, seeping downward.

“You two almost ready?” Jo’s voice called from somewhere down by the water, and my eyes shot open. We were still standing beside the rental shack. Beachgoers zipped past us on bicycles and roller skates. Somewhere nearby, a stereo blasted “Under the Boardwalk.”

“Shit,” I mumbled, snatching my life vest off the counter and brushing past Declan as I shrugged it on. I hoped he didn’t pick up on how thoroughly his touch had disconcerted me, but for good measure, I explained, “We’re supposed to be on a schedule.” I’d only booked the rentals for three hours, and I had every reason to suspect that the manager had started the timer the moment she sent lobster-boy to fetch the kayaks out of the shed.

If Declan was fazed by the sudden interruption, he didn’t say anything. Together, we lifted our neon orange kayak—plastic and surprisingly lightweight—and hauled it down to the water, where the rest of the group was waiting. Jo shot me a look that could only mean we’ll talk later before helping Peter load their own kayak into the water at the direction of an employee. I wasn’t sure I was looking forward to the conversation.

Declan and I were the last to glide our kayak into the shallow water, lapping over the pebbles that lined the shore.

“So, what’s this about a shark?” he asked, perhaps only for the sake of breaking the silence after whatever had happened back by the rental shack. We sloshed in up to our knees, the cold water shocking me back to my senses.

I tried to chuckle, but it came out more of a nervous titter than anything. “Google has informed me there’s a massive great white hanging out around here.”

“Ah. I read something about that in the news a couple years ago. It bit someone’s kayak.” Our own kayak thumped hollowly against a stray rock as we dragged it into the water. “But it was an experimental bite, kind of like a dog, you know? They don’t have hands, so they have to feel things with their mouths.”

I noticed he had this habit of imparting random tidbits of information. Information that no one had asked for but he seemed all too happy to give, which might have been endearing, if the information in question didn’t also terrify me. “Comforting,” I grumbled.

I grabbed my paddle before hopping into the front seat. Declan climbed in the back and the kayak rocked with the newfound weight. It was long enough that his legs didn’t need to wrap around me. I’d never sat in a two-person kayak—I’d been picturing Disneyland’s Matterhorn Bobsleds pre-refurbishment; during a field trip with my band class in sixth grade, I’d been strapped to a lanky trombone player’s lap in a bizarre form of public humiliation. I wasn’t sure if I was relieved or disappointed to discover that double kayaks had their own seats.

The rest of the group were already out on the water, forming a neat little line like ducks in a row as they paddled out. I adjusted the straps on the blockish life vest, which I’d buckled in a sloppy dash to excuse myself from the sunscreen situation.

“I’m pretty sure the sharks won’t be deterred by a bit of Styrofoam,” Declan commented behind me.

“If I’m lucky, they’ll be blinded by the sight of you.” When this garnered no response, I turned to look at him. He was frowning at me with that stupid blank expression. “Get it, because you’re so white, it’s blinding—”

“I got it, it was just a terrible joke,” he said. “I mean, resorting to ginger jokes? It’s just lazy at this point.”

Even in the hot sun, my cheeks grew warm. He had an incredible talent for making me feel ridiculous. “Not a ginger joke, a pale joke.”

He shrugged. “It’s the same thing.” His exposed shoulders—although they were fair—weren’t horrible to look at. My eyes couldn’t resist tracing the curve of his bicep, the golden hair on his forearms, the light freckles that trailed down to his wrist. I huffed, inexplicably annoyed despite the fact that I couldn’t seem to convince myself to look away.

He used his paddle to push us off from the shore, the muscles in his arms working, and the kayak bobbed precariously on the water. I snapped out of my arm-induced trance, my mind jumping right back to being shark food as I gripped the sides, paddle balanced across my lap. “Whoa, I wasn’t—”

“Just paddle,” he ordered.

Mostly because I didn’t know what else I could do—and definitely not because his assertiveness kind of did a number on me—I faced forward again. I picked up my paddle and dipped it into the water in unison with his on the opposite side, and for a moment, the only sound was the swish-swish of our paddles mingling with the faint babble of voices and music on the shore. We paddled past the buoys that marked the end of the swimming zone and out into the open ocean. The muscles in my arms seared with exertion. I was out of practice. Jo and Peter were leagues ahead of us, paddling parallel to the craggy shore. Catalina was mostly uninhabited—aside from Avalon and Two Harbors, it was all cliffs and rolling, grassy hills.

“I thought you used to be a lifeguard,” Declan said after a long moment.

I scrunched up my face against the bright sun, not sure where he was going with this, but I didn’t turn to look at him. I kept paddling. Swish-swish. One paddle after the other. “I was.”

“But you’re scared of the ocean.”

It was a statement, but there was a question buried beneath it. Like he was wondering if I lived in fear—of heights, of the ocean, of commitment—always too scared to take the leap. “I’m a little sketched out by it,” I admitted. “More by what’s in the ocean than the ocean itself. But pool lifeguards and ocean lifeguards are also pretty different. Ocean lifeguards have to do all this intense stuff like swim out past the pier and learn about riptides and stuff. Pool lifeguards practice pulling each other out of the pool at the local YMCA.”

“You still saved people’s lives though, either way.”

I snorted. “Right. I think I pulled someone out of the water, like, two whole times, and both times they insisted they were fine and I’d interrupted their swimming session.”