But I’ll be damned if I didn’t haul myself back up on that board every single time.

…

This is not a date.

This is not a date.

This. Is. Not. A. Date.

I mentally repeated the phrase as I headed to answer my front door. Just because I had on a sundress and little matching sweater didn’t make it a date. A date would have meant heels, and my toes were currently cocooned in pair of sensible but cute ballet flats. Maybe I’d shaved my legs, but that didn’t make it a date, either. Neither did my makeup or the fact that I’d taken the time to curl my hair.

Those small acts had been my own affirmations of life. They had nothing to do with the man who’d rung my doorbell a few seconds ago.

I exhaled slowly as I reached for the door handle, then took a fresh breath, pasted on a smile, and opened the door.

Oh shit. He had that whole beach-casual vibe going on, and he made it look good. Really damn good. His hair had that messy, ran-my-fingers-through-it style, and he’d rolled up the sleeves of his white button-down shirt over a pair of dark blue cargo shorts.

But it was his smile that seemed to stutter my heart.

“Wow. Morgan, you look incredible.”

Maybe it was the deep timbre of his voice or the way his gaze warmed my skin as he glanced over me in the same way I’d just done to him, but suddenly this felt very much like a date.

“Thank you,” I managed to reply. “You look great, too.” That was absolutely an understatement. The man looked edible.

“Thanks.” His smile widened. “You ready?”

“You betcha.” You betcha? Oh God, did I really just say that? Where the hell was the charm I’d been known for? The quick, flirting smile?

He didn’t seem to notice that I’d answered him like an eighty-five-year-old grandfather, and a couple of minutes later, we were strapped into his Land Cruiser, heading south.

“So what exactly are you planning to show me in the dark?” I asked, then mentally cursed myself again. “You know, where we can’t see anything?” Stop, you’re making it so much worse.

He tossed a grin my way, then peered up through the windshield. “It’s a clear night and a full moon. It’s a good night for climbing, wouldn’t you say, Kitty?”

I scoffed. “I’m not exactly dressed for mountaineering, Jackson.”

He slowed, pulling into the park. “Good, because we don’t exactly have any mountains around here.”

A turn later and my jaw dropped.

“But we do have lighthouses,” he said as he parked the car.

I stepped out into the parking lot, looking up, and up, and up at the black and white paint twisting its way up the enormous tower. This thing was colossal.