Page 5 of The Storm

He’s so pretty that it makes my hands shake.

And my lungs burn.

I’m not supposed to feel this way.

I’m not supposed to react like this.

I’m definitely not supposed to notice.

He tilts his head to the side the smallest bit. The wide smile lingers. “Who are you?”

Who am I? Good question. I almost snort out a laugh. Where would I even start?

Suddenly he blinks and the smile melts off his face. He lifts his arm and glances at the sport watch on his wrist.

“Shit,” he groans. “You’re the… Mom and Dad’s friend. You’re the son. Crap. Crap, crap, crap. What time is it?” He flicks a look at the sun, then toward the house. His eyes settle back on me, and he tilts his head again. “Nicholas, right?”

I nod slowly.

“Indigo,” I say. He knows my name, I know his—we’re on even ground. I feel slightly better, but not really.

He makes a face.

“Indy. The full name only comes out when I’m in trouble. Which I actually am. Did my mom sound pissed?” He keeps smiling at me. I keep not smiling. He runs his fingers through his hair, messing up the already messy strands. “Give me a sec and then we can head back?”

He’s already on the move, so I don’t think my input is expected. He goes to the edge of the dock and grabs the handle on the bow of the shell. He lifts the bow up onto the dock with practiced ease. He pauses for a second and lets the water drain out, then slides the shell onto the dock, muscles tightening in his arms as the back slides up. The bottom of the shell scrapes softly against the boards as it leaves the water.

He glances up at me and grins as he blows out an exaggerated breath.

I’d offer to help, but having no experience with boats of any kind, I’d probably make an ass of myself. And he’s already flipped the shell over. He leans over it to check something. He’s much stronger than he looks.

A shiver moves over my skin, and it prickles with goosebumps, like I’m cold, but I’m not at all.

He lifts the shell and carries it toward the shed. The boards creaks under his bare feet, and soft waves lap against the side of the dock as it sways gently.

Inside the shed, he lifts the shell onto a rack and then keeps his palm on it for an extra second to make sure it doesn’t roll. Once done, he walks back outside and slides the doors shut.

“Have you ever been?” he asks while he puts the latch in place. His eyes flick toward the wide expanse of water. “Out there? Rowing.”

“Never tried it.”

Maybe he’ll be an ass about it. Maybe he’ll be condescending and smug. He’ll ask, “What, never?” and sound impossibly surprised because naturally everybody has access to a boat and a whole boat shed and has a bay in their backyard.

Instead, he grins.

“If you ever want to give it a go, just say the word. I’m usually alone out here, but I wouldn’t mind some company. It’s a very?—”

“I think I should head back,” I say.

He blinks at the abrupt interruption, but the friendly smile stays in place.

“I was hoping I could postpone Mom’s lecture, but you’re right,” he says. Affable. So damn affable.

It grates. Scrapes over my brain like a wire brush.

I don’t want to like him.

Or think he’s pretty.