He sighs dramatically and explains. “You were upset about not knowing how to do things like ride bikes and swim, because that’s what real families do, you said. Therefore, my plan is to help you beat your seasickness by getting you used to the water in this boat. And when you’re used to the water, I teach you to swim. When you learn to swim, you love the water. Once you love the water, then you’ll love Beauty. Once you love Beauty, then you’ll forget about your dad’s fancy house in Malibu and start thinking of alternate ways to diffuse the ticking time bomb of your grandmother’s impending return from Nepal.”

I stare at him, awed. It’s a plan, all right. A scheme. A strategy. A plot. I’m both touched and impressed. “That, sir, is conniving and beautiful,” I say, hand on my heart. “You’re basically trying to ruin my dreams, though?”

“Sort of a bad person, remember?”

“Liar.”

“I’m seriously not trying to ruin your dreams, so please don’t joke about that. I’m still supportive of your dreams, from one artist to another.”

“Thought you were a craftsperson, not an artist.”

He feigns annoyance. “However,” he says, holding up a finger, “if you are going to live with your dad, which I still support, for the record, I want you to know that there are lots of boats in coastal California—like so many. It’s a beach, Josie.”

“Point taken,” I say, smiling. “Oops?”

“So you should be prepared. I’m doing you a favor, really.”

I chuckle. “Okay, fine. Favor accepted.”

Grinning, he pops the latches on his life jacket. Ditches it. Then pulls off his shirt and tosses it on the deck. If I thought his arms were nice, I was a fool. Because there it is, his entire naked torso, all lined with muscles that I don’t know the names of, and the color of warm sand. His stomach is bisected by a dark slash that leads into his shorts, which hang far too low and provocatively on those spectacular hips of his. It’s all too much. If the seasickness doesn’t take me, I’m definitely going to faint from all this titillation.

“Let’s learn to swim, Saint-Martin,” he says, squinting down at me from under black lashes, as if he’s completely unaware of the power he’s radiating. Or is he doing this on purpose?

Am I being seduced?

With … swimming? Is that a thing?

I CAN’T TELL.