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The sound of a familiar voice makes me get to my feet. Across the dock, I see Kenzi on Terry’s boat.
My heart lifts when I see her. Until I realize who she’s talking to.
Jason King grips the mesh on her boat. They’re chatting, leaning close. She’s giggling.
Giggling.
Her eyes flick upward, and she spots me. She looks guilty suddenly. Like she’s been caught with her hand in the cookie jar.
I try a wave. She gives me a small smile and waves back. Then she says something else to Jason before turning around and vanishing below deck.
So much for a happy reunion.
My chest is full of thorns when Jason climbs onto the Healing Touch. There’s no way to avoid him—we’re stuck on the same boat together now.
“Sup?” he says.
I don’t answer. I just ask, “How was your date?”
“Good.” Jason stops to think about it and then says, “Really good, actually.”
My heart is hammering now, my blood charged.
“I guess you got what you wanted, huh?” I say.
Now, Jason shoots me a look. “It wasn’t like that.”
“Not like what?”
He contemplates his answer, then says, “We didn’t have sex.”
If relief were a scent, it would be salt-sweat, thick polish, and the words we didn’t have sex.
Of course she wouldn’t. Kenzi has standards. Principles. Kenzi is better than the likes of Jason King.
“Rejection is a bitch,” I tell him and try not to sound quite so happy about it.
He’s staring off into the distance, though, with a faraway look in his eyes. “She’s different. I think we really made a connection.”
I laugh. It’s the worst sound I’ve ever made—a bitter bark of a noise. “You’ve got to be kidding me. The great Jason King. Felled by a pair of green eyes.”
He shrugs. His nonresponse is almost worse than anything he could say.
I’ve heard him brag about his conquests. I’ve heard the “locker room” talk.
But he’s buttoning up about Kenzi. He’s respecting her. It’s almost like he’s…
In love.
The thought makes my stomach lurch. This is worse than sex. This is something real. My teeth grind. “You’ve gone soft.”
The edge of his mouth turns. I’ve hit a nerve. “Seems that way,” he says, but his tone is thin. Irritated.
I can’t help it. I provoke the lion. “Funny,” I say. “I figured you’re always hard. Or was that just for me?”
He launches at me, and immediately, I tense. I’ve avoided a lot of bloody noses and black eyes by knowing how to duck before a hit.
But the hit never lands.
