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I make my way over toward the striped cushions of the couch, the rough wood of the deck rubbing against my bare feet. The cushions are damp, saturated with the humidity blown around by the breeze. I tuck my knees under my chin and stare out at the nothingness in front of me.

Night blankets everything. The rhythmic crash of surf and occasional rumble is the only indication I’m looking at an uninterrupted view of the sea and the sky. The sound isn’t soothing, but it relaxes me in a way the creaks inside and the strange bedroom didn’t.

I spend a lot of time bracing for something cataclysmic to happen. It’s a relief to hear incoming devastation and not have to worry it might be approaching. To have forewarning you should brace yourself for impact.

My eyelids grow heavy. I lean my head back against the shingles of the house, feeling the ocean air coat my face and tangle my hair.

There’s a low hiss to my right, a sound I immediately recognize as the sliding door opening again. My eyes fly open. I glance over and tense, all traces of sleepiness disappearing like hands cupping water.

Liam says nothing as he walks to the railing. He saw me sitting here, based on the tight line of his shoulders. Then again, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen Liam Stevens relaxed or at ease. He’s constantly on edge.

Maybe we haveonething in common. I’m just better at hiding it than he is.

He’s staring out into the night like he can actually see something, giving me an opportunity to study him uninterrupted.

I know I have a type. The guys I’m attracted to are always confident and athletic. Brimming with cockiness and being bold enough to make the first move. I thrive on playing hard to get with the guys who are willing to chase.

I can’t picture Liam Stevens chasing anything besides a football. I’m not sure why that intrigues me, why I’m wondering how Glenmont’s quarterback acts when he is interested in a girl, as I trace the curve of his broad shoulders and watch the wind ruffle the short strands of his hair.

Liam turns abruptly, his movements displaying the coordinated ease of an athlete as a couple of strides eat up the distance between us. He takes a seat beside me, appearing far less aware of the short distance between our bodies than I suddenly am.

Five inches. Maybe four.

I’m excruciatingly aware of each one of them.

He’s only wearing a cotton t-shirt and a pair of mesh basketball shorts, but there are no goosebumps appearing on his tan skin. I can feel the heat from his body radiating, tempering some of the wind’s chill. I can smell him—his body wash or his deodorant or his shampoo—some heady scent that’s entirely masculine.

It feels strange, sitting here with him, listening to waves in the middle of the night. Oddly intimate, like we’re the only two people in the world right now.

“Couldn’t sleep?” I finally say.

“Nope.” He pops the P as he stretches his long legs out.

I have never, ever paid attention to a guy’s legs. Abs? Sure. Crotch? Yes. Face? Absolutely. Biceps? Sometimes.

But legs? Nope.

I blame the way I’m looking at Liam’s on the fact I’m one, sleep-deprived, and two, there’s nothing else to really look at. The light above the door illuminates the whole deck, but nothing past the railing. It’s gray weathered wood or Liam’s legs.

Liam crosses his ankles, and lines of muscle shift. I know plenty of football players who hate staying in shape. Heard the groans from Alleghany guys during practice as I ran routines on the track. Brian Baylor once told me I was lucky I just got to stand on the sidelines while the team did the heavy lifting.

It’s obvious Liam does more than the bare minimum. He hasn’t been in season for months, but he looks like he could run a marathon without breaking a sweat. It doesn’t surprise me. Alleghany players started calling him Sergeant Stevens after a Glenmont player posted a video of a practice sophomore year. I wonder if Liam would be flattered if he knew. Wonder what fuels that level of intensity.

“What were you doing at the Fayetteville police station?” His voice is quiet, yet I can hear every syllable perfectly, even over the sound of the surf. For a few seconds, I consider pretending like I didn’t hear the question. When I glance over, Liam is staring straight ahead, his face expressionless.

I don’t think he’ll ask again. If I don’t answer, we’ll sit here in silence until one of us heads inside.

Liam Stevens isn’t a guy who chases.

So I tell him the truth, instead of sayingnone of your business. “My mom got arrested for a DUI.”

He doesn’t say he’s sorry, orthat sucks. “Did she hurt herself? Anyone else?”

“No. She fell asleep at a stop sign.”

“It’s happened before?”

“The DUIs are new. I threw all the pills and alcohol out when I got home for the summer. I thought it would help. Addiction doesn’t work that way.”

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