Page 42 of The Bully's Dare

I’ve heard him brag about his conquests. I’ve heard the “locker room” talk.

But he’s buttoning up about Kenzi. He’s respecting her. It’s almost like he’s…

In love.

The thought makes my stomach lurch. This is worse than sex. This is something real. My teeth grind. “You’ve gone soft.”

The edge of his mouth turns. I’ve hit a nerve. “Seems that way,” he says, but his tone is thin. Irritated.

I can’t help it. I provoke the lion. “Funny,” I say. “I figured you’re always hard. Or was that just for me?”

He launches at me and, immediately, I tense. I’ve avoided a lot of bloody noses and black eyes by knowing how to duck before a hit.

But the hit never lands.

I slowly reopen my eyes. Jason’s hand is balled up into a fist, but it’s locked by his side. He looks equally surprised.

Then he exhales. He unclenches his fingers to point at the deck.

“You missed a spot,” he tells me. Then he climbs below deck and vanishes, leaving me there with my adrenaline still surging.

Cleaning the Healing Touch is a two-day job.

The next day, I’m bent over, sweat caking my shirt to my back, when I hear two pairs of feet clomp up the dock and come to a stop beside me.

“Hey. What’s up?”

I glance up and feel my own sweat sting my eyes. Kenzi stands there, in her two-piece bathing suit and a pair of dark sunglasses.

She’s smiling. My initial euphoria at seeing her is dampened by the fact that she’s hanging out with him.

Jason hangs behind her, pool towel over his shoulder.

I frown. “What does it look like? My job.”

“Washing the boat?”

“Polishing.”

“Huh. We were on our way to the pool,” Kenzi says—as though that’s not obvious. “Want to take a break to get wet?”

“Can’t.” I don’t want water. I want to be moody.

Jason leans forward and hangs off the mesh. “Can we help?”

19

Kenzi

It’s especially hot.

The sun beats down on us. I have to tie my shirt in a knot, but I can still feel beads of sweat sliding down every part of my body.

Jason is working shirtless. I’m not complaining, except that it’s distracting. He is insanely sculpted; I’ve never seen a body like his, except in the movies. Especially not on a teenager. It’s hard for me not to stare—to follow the bead of sweat that drips down the center of his broad chest, over his toned stomach, and each pronounced ridge of his abdomen. When he buffers polish onto the boat, his biceps flex and those hard muscles roll down his back.

While shamelessly gawking, I feel a towel hit my face.

“Hey!”

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