The Brit

“Your arm,” he counters, holding up some protective bags and moving in. He wraps my arm carefully to protect it from the water before taking care of his own wounds. His bandage is stained, the blood having seeped through, and I turn away feeling . . . guilty. I did that. His wounds are because of me.

I step into the wetsuit, reaching behind me for the cord that’ll get the zip up.

“Here.” He moves in, and I move away.

“I’ve got it,” I say, feeling around, finding nothing.

My hand is knocked away and the zip dragged up my back slowly. “All done,” he murmurs, taking my ponytail and pulling the ends out of the neck. I shudder and take one cool step back into my personal space, and when I turn around, his wetsuit is only pulled up to his waist. Good God.

“How long have you rode jet skis?” I ask, blinking back my wonder as I gather up my pile of clothes and set them on a nearby bench. Do you ride them? Drive them?

“Since my father built this place fifteen years ago.”

“Your father built it?”

“Yes.” He walks away, and I follow, my eyes rooted to the wide expanse of his bare shoulders.

“Aren’t you sad to be leaving it then?” I ask, watching him toss his baseball cap on the shop counter and replace it with some wraparound shades on his head.

“It’s business. No smart man gets sentimental over business.” He makes sure I’m in his sights as he articulates every word clearly.

Of course. I’m business. “And you sell all these?” I motion to the line of shiny new jet skis in the store.

“I do.” He goes to a sliding metal door and takes the handle with both hands, leaning back to pull it across. More rippling muscles. I force myself to focus on them and not on his arm.

“And which jet ski will we be on?” I turn away, trying to sound nonchalant, when on the inside I’m wondering what on earth I’ll do if he leads me to the container full of loaded jet skis.

“One of these.” He points into the room he’s just revealed, and I peek inside. There are two jet skis strapped to trailers, both sparkling clean, both huge, and both black. Completely black, except for the gray writing down one side that says SEA-DOO. Every other jet ski I’ve seen today has been mostly colorful. “This one is mine.” He slides open another door, and Brad pulls up in an old Jeep. “And that one was my father’s.” He nods to the other jet ski.

“Your dad rode a jet ski?” I blurt without thought, and he smiles, starting to hook up the trailer to the jeep.

“Before he was ill, yes.”

I wander down the side of his dad’s jet ski, my hand stroking the black paintwork. I crouch when I reach the rear, running a finger across some small print. “Mister,” I say quietly, biting my lip as I glance at Danny.

“I used to call him that.”

“Mister?”

“Yeah, like a term of endearment.” He points to his jet ski, and I bend to look at the back. “And he called me kid.”

Mister and kid. I look at Danny. There’s that softness again, the part of him he keeps hidden behind the monster. “That’s kind of cute.” I say, and he huffs a small burst of laughter as I straighten.

The Jeep pulls away, reversing down to the water edge, and Danny starts pulling the top of his wetsuit up his torso. His muscles are doing crazy swelling and tensing stuff. I exhale my relief when his bare chest is finally hidden from my sights, as well as his mutilated arm. I turn away from him and head for the water, shielding my eyes from the setting sun.

“You need some glasses,” Danny says, joining me and handing me a pair of black wraparounds. “Put them on.”

I do as I’m bid, covering my eyes. “Isn’t it a bit late to be going out on the water?”

He wades into the sea and negotiates the jet ski from the trailer. “Sunset is the best time on the water.” Danny jerks his head, summoning me on as he pulls his shades over his eyes. He looks out of this world in a wetsuit. Out. Of. This. World.

“It’s just us?”

He gazes around, prompting me to do the same. The place is deserted, and Brad’s now gone too. Into the café, I assume. It’s just me and Danny. “Just us,” he says, an edge of something unrecognizable in his tone. “The wind in your hair, the salt spray on your face. You’ll love it.”

I’m sure I will, it sounds amazing, but all this has thrown me, more than the discovery of hidden firearms. “Are white-knuckle rides all part of my stay at the pleasure of Danny Black?”