Page 38 of Forget Me Not

She gasps and shoves at my arm playfully. Heat travels down to my cock from the spot where she touched me. Last night’s zoetrope of sex positions comes crashing back and suddenly, I’m wondering what she’d look like naked and spread out in the sand underneath me.

Was that a laugh I managed to pry out of Nova Fischer?

“I don’t murder on the first date. I’m not that kind of girl.”

I brush off her little comment about a first date—I don’t date, but another thought pops in my head.

“What kind of girl are you, then?”

“What?” she asks, delicate brows knitting together. She bends over to grab Toast’s ball that he dropped in her path and I take the opportunity to let my eyes slide lower. Yep, ass is still perfect. “I don’t know. What kind of question is that?”

“How can you know you aren’t that type of girl if you don’t know what type you are?”

She glares at me and my cock twitches in my jeans. Maybe I am a fucking masochist.

“I don’t know,” she shakes her head. “I just know I’m not that girl.”

“So, you save cats and dogs and whatever else falls in your path. You run an inn. You paint. You walk with strangers on the beach and . . . what else?”

She chews on her lips, her smile faltering like she’s remembering a bad memory.

Finally, she shakes her head. “Nuh-uh. Not until you tell me something about yourself.”

“What’s there to tell?”

“We aren’t strangers, first off,” she points out. “Second off, you’ve barely told me about yourself, other than you have a boat and you catch crustaceans all day. Oh, and that you despise me.”

“What’s there to tell?”

“Wow,” she deadpans, cheeks flaming. “Not even going to argue the part about you despising me?”

“I don’t,” I shrug. I despise my obsession with you.

“Well, where did you come from?”

“Portland.”

“Where did you come from originally?”

“North Carolina.”

“And where are you going?”

“Are you a detective?”

“I’m just curious,” she muses. “Not many people would stay on an island for five weeks because their boat broke down. The ferry runs three times a day.”

“I’m not most people.”

“So, what makes Mr. Reid Morrison so special?” she asks, turning and walking backwards. I almost want her to fall, just so I have an excuse to help her up. Maybe then this line of questioning would stop.

“Does it matter?”

“Yes,” she shrugs. “I’ve told you things. Now, it’s your turn. Why are you here? Don’t you have a home back in Portland.”

When I don’t answer, she stops, her smile fading.

“You live on the boat?”

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