“The sun makes your freckles darker,” he says in low, raspy voice as his gaze trails over my cheeks and nose where the wind is blowing loose tendrils of hair.

He reaches out for me. Fingers splayed. Slowly. He’s going to touch my face, right now, right here. I hold my breath, waiting to feel that shocking warmth again.…

But.

His hand stops midair and flexes, hanging there for a moment as if all his muscles have been turned to stone. He blinks rapidly and then withdraws his arm, mumbling an apology under his breath that I barely catch. And the disappointment that rolls over me is fast and intense and completely unexpected.

I look away, rattled, bewildered, and pretend to stare out at the water. The sun’s falling out of sight, making the sky all purple, casting long shadows. Too long. Golden hour is gone.

“Stomach back to normal?” he asks in a quiet voice.

“Think so.”

“Good.” He turns in his seat to switch on the engine. “Your hour’s up.”

Oh, thank God. I need some space. To process what’s happened here today.

Or maybe to forget.

He takes it slow getting me back to the boatyard. Even still, I cling tightly to the boat and keep my eyes on the horizon. It helps. I really hate that he was right.

When we get back to the dock and he maneuvers Big-Enough into place, I practically tumble over myself and nearly fall on my face trying to get back onto shore. He offers a hand, but I refuse it. Unhelpfully, he tells me I need to practice being out on the water until I can get over my seasickness. Short, slow trips.

I’ve got another cure: never going out on the water again. And maybe staying away from him until I figure out what happened out there …

“Hope you enjoyed your charter, Saint-Martin,” he says, sounding like the boy I’ve come to know over the last couple of weeks, sarcastic and dark and slightly distant. Not someone who makes all the hairs stand up on my body.

“The views were a ten,” I say, pretending I’m my normal self too. “The captain was kind of a jackass who drove like a maniac—”

“You drive cars, not boats.”

“—and nearly made me puke my guts out.”

“Sounds like a personal problem.”

“I’ll be filing a complaint.”

“No refunds, remember.”

“You really should post a sign.”

The corners of his mouth curl. “I’ll bring that up to management.”

I turn to leave and hold up a hand over my shoulder, trying to seem cool and unfazed. Definitely not someone who’s completely confused by what just happened and wants to get out of here ASAP. “Adieu, Captain Lucky. If that is your real name.”

“Goodbye, shutterbug.”

I ignore that.

When I’m halfway down the boatyard, he calls out behind me, “Hey, Josie?”

“Yes?” I say, stopping again.