And I can’t help thinking of the things I do well and the things I do badly and the consequences. Because there are always consequences.

“Seattle,” I answer now, making a small face. “And I’m sorry…” My voice drifts off, and I don’t know what to say, what I was going to say. He just waits, not rushing in to fill the silence. “It’s been a hard year,” I conclude.

His jaw shifts, eyes narrowing. He has blue eyes, intensely blue, and I have to look down, look away, because I’m feeling all the crazy things I didn’t think I knew how to feel anymore.

Hope.

Desire.

Desire.

I exhale slowly and look up at him, thinking maybe the blue eyes and the attraction is all a trick of my imagination. He’s still looking at me, and the effect is the same.

Me, girl.

You, boy.

I look down again, drag my finger through the moisture beading the cup. What were we talking about, anyway? Where’s my brain?

God, I feel like I’m turning into a teenage boy. I’m thinking of things lusty and lustful, and instead of shame, I feel… strong.

“Where are you from?” I ask, rubbing more moisture from the outside of the cup, the tip of my finger going back and forth, over and over on the same cold wet spot. God, I’m nervous. And excited. And nervous.

He’s too young.

He’s too young.

He’s waaaay too young, and I’m too old. And I’m a mother. I have children. Little girl and little boy. I can’t… can’t—what?

Be attracted to a man?

I’d like to tell myself he’s not a man, but when I look up at him and he’s looking back—all blue eyes in suntanned face, all high, hard cheekbones and perfect jaw with lips that belong on a movie star hunk instead of a surf instructor—I know he’s not a kid. He’s a man.

And that’s why I’m nervous. Because he’s a very sexual man, and every time I look at him, I think—feel—sex. And it’s been forever since I thought about sex. Forever since I felt sexual.

“Florida,” Kai answers. “Fort Lauderdale.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Having a life.”

“You couldn’t do that in Florida?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

He shrugs. “People love their things too much.”

I’m suddenly aware of the hulking five-star hotel we’ve just left behind with its long rectangular pool that sparkles in the perfect tropical sunshine, the soft swish and sway of palm trees, and the discreet cocktail service provided by charming, uniformed cabana boys. “What’s wrong with things?”

“Nothing if you don’t mind being owned by them.”