Page 32 of Passing Ships

“I know a shark when I see one, sweetheart,” he states.

I lean my elbows onto the table and meet his stare. “Okay, how about Truth or Dare? I mean, if you’re not too chicken.”

Avie’s eyes dart between the two of us with concern, but Sebastian just chuckles.

“I’m not skinny-dipping in the ocean, Legs.”

“Come on, Lennon. Don’t be a stick in the mud,” I say as I fill the empty shot glass from the bottle of vodka and slide it to him. “Truth or dare?”

He wraps his hand around the glass. “Dare.”

Sebastian’s chair scoots across the floor, and my eyes shoot to him at the sound.

“As much as I want to see how this little game plays out, I’m not in the mood to see my brother’s junk tonight. Come on, baby. Let’s go check out the beach.”

He reaches for Avie, and her eyes come to me as she takes his hand.

Behave. You promised, she mouths.

The two of them walk out of the kitchen, leaving Lennon and me alone.

I look back at him. “I dare you to go shot for shot with me,” I say.

He picks up the glass, and without breaking our stare, he turns it up. I watch as his throat contracts. He sets the glass back on the table and gives it a flick, sliding it back over to me.

“Word of advice: never agree to go shot for shot with a sailor, sweetheart. Truth or dare?” he says.

There’s a hint of a challenge to the statement, and a shiver runs through me at his tone. The dare was meant to get him to loosen up a bit, but I might have bitten off more than I can chew.

“Truth,” I say as I refill the glass.

“Are you sleeping with Anson?”

The question catches me off guard, but I try to keep the surprise off my face and my voice even as I answer, “Not tonight.”

I smile as I look up and hold his eyes when I down the shot.

“Truth or dare, Sailor.”

He snatches the glass from my fingers and grabs the bottle. He fills the glass and downs a shot before answering, “Truth.”

“Is there a woman back in Virginia watching your Facebook like a hawk and wondering why you didn’t bring her with you to your brother’s wedding?” I ask.

“I don’t have Facebook or any of that shit,” he says as he hands the glass back to me.

“You don’t have any social media? No Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat, or whatever Twitter is called now?” I ask in disbelief.

“No.”

“What are you, a caveman?”

He smirks. “Nope. Just a man who doesn’t give a shit about the opinions of thousands of people he’ll never meet or cares to meet.”

He picks up the bottle and fills the shot glass for me.

“Hmm, seems suspect to me,” I say as I take it. My tongue is numb to the bitter liquid now.

“Truth or dare?” he asks.

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