I laugh despite myself. As much as I try to act like it's not a big deal, it is. It's not just missing the funeral. It's everything—the way I've let my own shit stop me from being and doing anything in life. She deserves more than what I can give her emotionally. I can't give her the fairytales she dreams about and writes about.

"Before you go," Nick heads towards the back and returns with a box. "Taste test these on your date and give me some feedback."

"It's not a date."

"You're whisking a girl you’ve known your whole life, who you clearly have feelings for away on a boat during sunset. Call me old-fashioned, but I'd say that's a date."

I don't fuel the fire with a response, instead offering a grin and thank you before walking out the door.

The drive back to the house does my head no good. I can feel the nerves building again, curling tight in my gut. And then, when I finally see her standing on the front porch waiting for me, everything goes quiet and still in my mind. She opens the door, and the sweet smell of her perfume fills the car. It's like the world just pauses, and all I can see is her.

Fuck me.

She's beautiful, and it's effortless. Her presence alone makes my chest tight with a feeling I can't—won't—name.

I am so fucked. So fucking fucked.

The drive to the marina passes in comfortable silence, broken only by occasional questions and soft small talk. Her presence fills the space between us with an electric charge that makes my skin hum. Why does this girl have such a tight grip on my every emotion? How does she make me so fucking nervous with just a glance?

I help her onto Scott's boat—the one he impulsively bought Mom as an "I'm sorry for being such a piece of shit husband" gift, masquerading as an anniversary present months after their actual anniversary.

As I steer us out toward the ocean, the further we get from dry land, the more the tension in my shoulders begins to ease. The water has always been my sanctuary.

She's wearing loose linen shorts that show off her long, already—tanned legs, and a tank top that clings to her curves in ways that make it hard to focus on anything else. Her hair's pulled back, but the salt breeze is already working its magic with the loose strands framing her face. And fuck, her smile. If I ever wanted to bottle up the feeling of sunshine, I'd just have to see that smile.

I catch myself staring, and it's only when she says my name that I snap out of it.

"Nate?"

"Huh?"

Smooth dickhead.

Real smooth.

I clear my throat, gripping the steering wheel a little too tight. She laughs softly, the sound carrying on the wind.

"I was trying to say thank you."

"For what?"