I’m too busy to notice Jason the first time he tries to get my attention. I’m belly-down on the bow of the boat reading “Dracula”, and finding that Donovan’s mix provides the perfect background soundtrack to the erotic gothic classic.
Until over the edges of my pages, I see Jason’s bright eyes, cocky grin. His mouth moves and I tug my headphones off my ears with: “What?”
“Sorry for the intrusion, ma’am,” he says. He’s holding a clipboard, which he taps with his pen. “I’ve come with official dock master business.”
He’s wearing a shirt so small, it shows off his midriff (which, I can’t help but notice, is incredibly toned). It takes me a second to recognize the lighthouse logo at his chest—
I squint. “Is that Donovan’s shirt?”
“It’s come to my attention you haven’t filled out the new boat-owner form.”
I roll my eyes at his bizarre roleplay. “How long is this going to take?”
“Longer if you keep interrupting me. Now.” He turns to the clipboard. “Your state of residence?”
“Jupiter.”
He pretends to jot my answer down. “Current age?”
“Eighteen, going on eight-hundred.”
“Have you captained a boat before?”
“Once, but the pirates made me walk the plank when they realized I was a witch.”
“I see.” Scribble, scribble. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
I’m so surprised by that, the sound I make is a hiccupped noise: an incredulous half-scoff, half-laugh. “A…what?”
His eyes finally leave the clipboard and meet mine. Those blues are brighter than the sky itself. “Boyfriend, girlfriend, friend-with-benefits…?”
“I…no!” My face burns. I force my tongue to unknot and throw his question back at him: “What’s it to you?”
That dangerous, crooked smile lifts the edge of his mouth. “Will you come get ice cream with me?”
I blink. I have to piece the words together, like a child learning to speak. “You’re asking me out. To ice cream. You. Jason King.”
He points his pen to himself. “Me, Jason King.” Then he jabs the pen at me. “You, Kenzi Stratton.”
He’s such a dork, and no matter how hard I bite the inside of my cheek, I can’t help the smile that creeps across my lips.
He lights up. “Is that a yes?”
I shake my head. “No!” I say, maybe more forceful than I should. “Absolutely no.”
His smile drops. “What? Why not? You’ve got somewhere better to be?”
“Literally anywhere.”
He opens his mouth to say something, but he’s interrupted by a shout—“Hey!”
Donovan charges down the dock with a scowl. He’s in a stained shirt and jeans with too many rips in them—he’s clearly in the middle of laundry day. He snaps at Jason: “Give me my shirt back.”
Jason takes a couple steps back, but he isn’t retreating—he’s grinning, like a cat playing with the mouse before it strikes. “What…is this shirt yours? I had no idea.”
“Give. It. Back.”
Jason takes off the shirt then and holds it out to Donovan.
“I was only borrowing it, dude,” Jason says, as though they’re friends now. “Chill.”
Donovan’s face is red. He snatches the shirt back.
Ugh. This got ugly quick.
“Hey, Jason,” I say, “next time you want to go through someone’s laundry, I’ve got a pair of panties that are your color.”
Jason winks at me. “Take them off on our date and I’ll consider it.”
I wrinkle my nose at him. “There is no date.”
“We’ll see.”
Jason exits, climbing on board the Healing Touch. I sigh and turn back to Donovan. “Are you okay—?”
But Donovan is already halfway up the dock, his back to me.
