It’s not like him.
It’s intoxicating.
He shifts back to careless troublemaker. Clears his throat, dons his sunglasses, turns to my brother. “You bringing bourbon?”
There’s something in his voice, like he’s reminding me of last night on purpose, like he wants me to recall the taste of his lips.
God, I bet he tastes good right now. Like toothpaste and Holden.
How much would it ruin everything if I kissed him right now?
If I tore his clothes off and fucked him right here on the floor?
“Tequila,” Oliver says.
Holden raises a brow. “Doesn’t sound like you.”
“Trying new things.” He slides his backpack over his shoulder. Steps into his flip-flops. “You ready, Daisy?”
“Yeah. Thanks.” I pick up my tote bag and follow my brother out of the house.
It’s already hot. Too hot for any serious conversation. We walk in silence. Toward town, then down the boardwalk, to a docked boat.
Oliver talks to the, uh, seaman. Pays him for something. Turns back to us come here.
“We’re going on a boat?” I appreciate the thought, I guess, but what the hell?
Holden presses his palm into my lower back. My cover-up brushes my skin, but I can still feel the heat of his hand. The pressure. The friction.
He leans in to whisper. “We’re going to a hidden beach.”
“We are?” My heartbeat picks up. That’s incredibly, amazingly perfect.
“Yeah, but I didn’t say anything. It’s a surprise.” He winks and follows my brother onto the boat.
Then it’s Luna.
Me.
It’s a small boat. Or maybe it’s big, by boat standards. I’m not really sure. It’s the size of my bedroom, with seats along three edges and a steering wheel up front.
The, uh, sailor motions to a cooler under one of the benches. He says something in Spanish, but I only catch half the words.
“It will be an hour.” Oliver sits on one edge of the bench. He slides his backpack off. Bends to dig through the cooler.
Water.
He actually removes waters. One for each of us.
He hands them out, then he returns to his seat, dons his headphones, pulls out his Kindle.
“Good idea.” Luna sits on the same bench. Dons her headphones and sunglasses. Leans back to soak up the sun.
I sit on the bench next to theirs, the one opposite the steering wheel, at the back of the boat.
Holden sits next to me. Offers his hand. “It might be rocky.”
I nod thanks.
Then the sailor gets into position. Takes off.
The ride is slow, but it’s fast enough it’s choppy.
Thankfully, I have provisions. I pull a non-drowsy Dramamine from my bag, take one, offer it to Holden.
“Thanks.” He takes one. Holds it up, offering it to Luna and Oliver.
Oliver nods yeah.
Holden tosses it over.
He turns back to me. “Doesn’t it take an hour to kick in?”
“Someone should have warned me we’re going on a boat.”
“Damn.” He leans back. Lets his legs splay open. “If only I wasn’t distracted last night.”
“Yeah?”
He nods yeah. “How do you feel?”
“Good.” I fight a blush. “Sore.”
Pride spreads over his expression. “You sleep okay?”
“Barely slept.”
“Here.” He reaches into his backpack. Pulls out something. A bottle of tea. “It’s not a Holden latte, but it’s not bad.”
“Thanks. Really.” I take the glass container.
He holds up his water to toast. “To your official birthday.”
“I’m not sure I’m topping last night.”
“You don’t have faith in me?”
My stomach flutters. “Do you really think…”
“Maybe.” He taps his bottle with mine. “At least, I hope so.”
Fuck, there’s something about his tone.
It’s so hot.
I take a long sip of my iced tea. It’s rich, with this hint of lemon, but it does nothing to cool me down.
“We have an hour here,” he says.
“Are you going to offer me your headphones?”
“Sure. You like eighties music?”
“The stuff on the radio.”
“You have a favorite?”
“Hmm.” That’s an excellent question. “I guess I’m partial to that one about dying in someone’s arms.”
He sings the chorus.
“That’s it.”
“Romantic.”
I nod. “I like that idea. Of loving someone so much you could collapse in their arms. That you just… feel safe.”
“It’s sweet.”
“Do you believe in that?”
“I don’t know. It happens for some people.” His voice trails off, but the implication stays clear. But not for me.
Ahem. “What’s your favorite?”
“Come on Eileen.”
My laugh gets louder. “You like a guy pestering a woman to sleep with him?”
“Of course. That singer knows what he wants.”
“Really?”
He shakes his head of course not. “It’s a fucked-up song, but it’s catchy.”
“You like that sound?”
“Yeah. All the new wave stuff. Guess, in today’s terms… it’s kind of like Lorde. Only eighties.”
“Like Lorde only eighties?”
“Is that not clear?”
I shake my head.
He smiles. “Pop. Electronic. A little weird. A little goth. My mom’s favorite band was The Cure. Well, top five.”
“Lovesong?”
He sings the chorus. He hits every note, and he sells the emotion too.
It’s so not what I expect from him. But then I didn’t expect last night. I’m not sure what I expect from him anymore.