She hopped out of the boat and walked toward him, the wind tugging strands of hair from her ponytail. “Sorry I said anything.”

Was he upset about McKenzie? She didn’t think it was possible for anyone to like the woman that much, but maybe she was wrong.

“I don’t care about McKenzie,” he said, answering the question she never asked aloud.

“You don’t?”

“No.” He faced her now, but the sunglasses made him hard to read.

“I just thought—”

“You thought wrong.”

She stilled. “Sorry.”

He removed his glasses and hung them on the collar of his shirt. “She wanted to interview me. Duncan thought it would be good publicity.”

An interview . . . ?

“Besides, she’s really not my type.”

“Tiny blondes with perfect bodies aren’t your type?”

His eyebrows shot up and she chewed the inside of her lip, wishing like crazy she hadn’t just said that.

“Nope.” He looked at her with such intensity Louisa had to wonder if he was purposely trying to knock her off-kilter. She searched his eyes for a clue—anything that would let her in on what was running through his mind—but nothing came.

Her guard went up and she told herself not to read into any of this, but oh, how she wanted to. She wanted this feeling to last—this bright-lighted sizzle of electricity, a stronger draw than any she’d ever felt in her life.

But this was Cody. She and Cody were just (barely) friends.

But this was Cody. And she couldn’t ignore the power of that.

“So you have a type?” She dared the question because the silence overwhelmed her.

He took a step closer, eyes still fixed on hers, then reached out and tucked her hair behind her ear. His thumb traced the line of her jaw, and he held the hair safe from the wind.

“Not really a type,” he said. “Just a person.”

Her heart thumped against her rib cage so loudly he could probably hear it. If there had been a marching band nearby, it could’ve been the drum line. It pounded and crashed—an ocean of force—and everything else faded away.

“You don’t mean . . . ?” Me? Her mind finished the sentence and followed it up with Please mean me.

“I do mean . . .”

And then he did something she would relive every single day until the day she died. He brought his free hand to her face, and for a brief moment she saw a flicker of indecision.

Kiss me. Kiss me. Kiss me. Her mind pleaded with him as she inched ever so slightly closer, not wanting to spook him but very much wanting to communicate her willingness to participate in whatever it was he was thinking of doing.

He wouldn’t make grand proclamations, and that was fine by her, as long as she was able to feel the warmth of his skin underneath her fingertips.