Page 22 of Forget Me Not

She narrows her gaze on me, probably mad at the amusement in my eyes.

“Yeah,” she snaps. “You always seem to end up where I am.”

Not by conscious choice, I think to myself, but I decide to change the subject before she can psychoanalyze me any further. The last thing someone as sweet and innocent as her needs is a peek inside my fucked-up head.

“Why are you drinking Windex, Nova?”

She rolls her eyes dramatically. “It’s not Windex. It’s blueberry beer. Made with blueberries.”

“Who would have guessed?”

“Listen,” she says, turning in her chair to face me. It’s entirely too close. I can smell her perfume wafting toward me and the thin little top she’s got on pisses me off. It’s innocent, with flowers and shit, but it’s got these straps, right over her chest that make her tits look like heaven on a silver platter. “We’ve got to come to an agreement if you’re going to be living under my roof.”

“So, I’m coming to stay with you in your ivory tower, princess?”

“Don’t call me that and no.”

I try not to think about how I can make her blush with a single glance, but it’s fucking impossible.

Shit can get addicting to a man.

“Okay, so what do you propose?” I’m only humoring her because she’s stammering and something about it is enjoyable to me. I like that I can get under her skin too much, but I also have no plans to stop.

I have at least three weeks on this hellish island. Why not have some fun?

“Who are you?” she asks suddenly, finally meeting my gaze head-on.

Either the beer is a little too strong—not likely—or that gaze almost knocked me off my seat.

I haven’t really noticed them before now. Deep blue, a touch of green like the Atlantic. Beautiful and fucking haunting at the same time.

“Reid Morrison.”

“You know what I mean,” she scoffs, voice quieter than before. No one’s paying attention to us, but it feels like all ears are trained this way, as if they’re all secretly eavesdropping. “Why are you here?”

“You mean what is a girl like me, doing in a place like this?”

“Yes,” she rolls her eyes, again.

That’s strike two of the night.

“I told you. Boat broke down. This place is the closest I could get to a shop.”

Her delicate brows furrow, like she expected me to say something else.

“Tell me,” I murmur, and she inches back from me. She’s not looking at me, again, and I find that pisses me off for some reason. I want those pretty ocean eyes to see me. “Where is your date?”

“He’s a friend,” she corrects, nodding toward the front of the room where I spot Crusty, sure as shit gearing up with a guitar and a constipated look on his face that can’t be normal. “And he’s getting ready to go on stage.”

This should be interesting.

Just as the announcer calls his name, everyone in the room cheers for him. My guess is that he does this often, judging by the way everyone quiets down when he takes the mic.

“I wrote this song for someone very special and she’s here tonight . . .”

“Oh no,” Nova grumbles.

“Oh yes,” I can’t help but chuckle, just as Crusty dissolves into the love ballad to beat all love ballads.

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