I grab his forearm, and he stops.

“Do you want to leave?” I ask quietly. “I can make the arrangements. We can be back at the airport within an hour.”

Jace turns and studies my face for a long moment. “No,” he finally says. “I don’t want to leave.”

Relief fills me.

“I must be a masochist.” Jace turns and grabs his hat and shirt from their spots on the sand before heading inside, leaving me standing there in the sunlight.

I sit alone on the beach for a while. By the time I follow him inside, it’s nearing dusk. I walk into the large house, and there’s no sign of Jace anywhere.

Strolling around the empty kitchen, I peer in cabinets and the fridge. We were stranded at sea during lunchtime, and I realize I haven’t eaten all day. The kitchen is stocked with ingredients, but nothing that’s ready to eat.

I open the freezer to find a full bottle of vodka and pour some in a glass tumbler before I head over to the living room, then flop down onto one of the couches. I spot a remote on the coffee table and hit the power button.

The flat screen television hums to life, displaying some sort of soap opera that fills the wide screen. I don’t pay any attention to it, instead sipping the vodka and letting the dialogue fade to background noise as I stare out of the sliding doors at the water barely visible in the receding light. The alcohol burns my empty stomach as I lose myself in my thoughts.

I’m pulled back to the present when I hear footsteps on the stairs.

Jace appears in the doorway of the kitchen, still dressed in the same clothes he wore sailing earlier. We stare at each other for a minute, and then he walks over to the fridge and begins pulling random items out.

I stand and walk over to the kitchen island, abandoning the show and my empty glass. “What are you doing?”

“Cooking.” Jace’s voice is absent of anger, or any other emotion.

“Can I help?”

He slides a red pepper to me. “Chop this.”

I look around the kitchen, finally spotting a cutting board and knife.

Jace starts cutting up a large chunk of broccoli. The only sounds in the kitchen are the sharp thud of our knives and the muted exclamations coming from the television.

Finally, I can’t take the charged silence anymore. “I really am sorry, Jace,” I whisper.

He sighs. “I know you are. I’m mad at the situation, more than you.”

“But you are mad at me.” My voice is soft, and I don’t bother to hide the hurt.

“Wouldn’t you be?”

I try to put myself in Jace’s position and imagine finding out something like this about him.

“Yeah, I would be,” I reply truthfully.

We resume chopping.

“How much of it was a lie?” Jace suddenly asks.

“What do you mean?”

“Like Philip. Is he actually your stepbrother?”