Thump. Thump. Thump.
The rhythmic sound reminds me of the day he was punching the shed.
I look up at him, reluctant to bring it up, but wanting to know the answer.
“That day outside,” I begin. “When you were punching the shed. What exactly was making you so upset?”
He almost flinches, but he doesn’t move. He keeps his arms wrapped tightly around my shoulders and his dark eyes closed.
“Why do we have to talk about that?” he asks, his voice husky with relaxation. “I thought you wanted to hear my question?”
“I do,” I tell him quickly. “But I want to hear this first. You told me you were mad at yourself, that you were letting something get to you. What was it?”
Because I have to know.
He sighs, and then opens his gorgeous eyes.
“You,” he says softly, the word grazing along the edge of my heart. “I’m letting you get to me.”
I suck in my breath and draw back, trying to see more of his face, trying to figure his answer out.
“Why would that piss you off?” I ask him hesitantly. “I’m a girl, you’re a guy, I think it’s an entirely normal thing.”
He closes his eyes again, but his arms are still wrapped around me. Thank God.
“It is. But you’re not in a good place and I guess I was pissed at Serendipity for her bad timing.”
I’m silent because I don’t know what to say, and Dare opens one eye.
“Back home, girls often want to date me because of my step-father’s family, because they have a lot of money. I hate all of it, but I especially hate the part where I never know when someone is sincere and wants to be close to me just because I’m me.”
He pauses for a minute. “You have no idea who I am, but you like me just the same.”
I’m desperately confused now. “And that’s a bad thing?”
He shakes his head and opens his eyes and stares out at the water. “No, it’s just a bad time. You’re not ready for someone like me. You’re not in a good place.”
That sort of pisses me off and I shrug out of his arms. “Not in a good place? My mother just died. I’m hardly balancing on the edge or something. People die, and it sucks but it doesn’t
mean that I’m a fragile little flower.”
He levels a gaze at me, a look as black as night. “Be that as it may,” he concedes. “You’re still grieving. And we can’t begin something beautiful when there is still so much ugliness around us.”
I’m stunned and sad and silent as I stare away from him, out toward the opposite side of the boat. So he likes me, but he can’t be with me. What the hell kind of thing is this?
After a minute, he turns my chin with his thumb, making me look at him.
I don’t want to, but then again, I do. Because even when he’s infuriating, he’s beautiful.
“Ask me what my question is,” he instructs me.
I lift my chin.
No.
“Go on,” he urges. “Ask me.”
I want to know. I want to know why he wanted me out here in the middle of the water so he could ask it. I want to know what it is. I want to know what it could possibly be. So I ask.