Page 8 of Adrift

I feel like a giddy schoolkid with my first crush. I’m all nervous and excited and flustered, and it’s one little wink that probably doesn’t mean anything.

But my boldness always wins, and I can’t stop myself keeping up the banter with a calculated risk.

“Good thing it wasn’t Grindr.”

I’m just about positive this guy plays for my team. He dresses so nicely and flirts so readily, after all… and there’s no quicker way of finding out.

He gives me a knowing look, and I want to pump my fist in victory—and excitement.

“At work? Island life sounds… pleasurably laidback,” he drawls, resting an elbow on the counter and leaning over it slightly.

My brain seizes up for a minute. I lick my lips, and his eyes flicker down to the tip of my tongue.

He’s interested. Flirt, you idiot. If there’s one thing you can do in life, it’s flirt. Come on. Say something.

But—unusually for me—I barely knowwhatto say.

There’s a chance this guy is the full package: single, into men, nice, mindblowingly hot, and living nearby. Most of the time, Isettle for three out of five. Just the big two when it’s late at night and I’m desperate enough.

The moment I meet his gaze and hold it, the crackle between us raises all the hairs on my forearms. I’ve sure as hell never felt that way before.

What if thisisthe Prince Charming I’m always telling people to send my way?

Then I’d better make sure I catch his eye, hadn’t I?

“Laidback? All the time,” I answer him, folding my arms on the bar top. My heart is flip-flopping against my ribs like it wants to bust out and run a marathon. “Sometimes forward, sideways, up against the wall…” I make a point of looking him up and down. “But that’s just the big, strong ones.”

Ohhhhh, fuck. It’s happening.

A boyish grin is slowly appearing on his face. The rainclouds of his grumpy scowl crack open, and suddenly white teeth flash like a sunbeam of blue sky on a winter’s day.

It’s almost too much, having the full force aimed at me.

Kill me here and now, I was right. He’s gorgeous when he smiles.

My heart is racing so fast that it disappears in the thrum shivering through my whole body, head to toe. Something in me is lighting up, humming in a strange, shivering note like a wine glass full of water when a finger drags around the rim.

“Gage,” he says simply and offers me a hand. “You don’t sound like you’re from around here.”

“Kieran. Thanks for noticing.”

All I can imagine is those big hands running up my shirt, demanding and claiming and exploring, all night long. But I push myself off the counter to stand upright so I can take his handshake.

“Impossible not to—” he starts.

Static electricity sparks between our hands at the slightest touch. He breaks off, and I yelp and leap backward, nearly losing my footing.

“Whoa!” He reaches over the counter to steady me on his feet, then drops it when he sees that I’m fine. “I guess we’re both as shocked as each other, eh?”

“Ahh,” I tease him right back, my eyes twinkling. “Youdosound like you’re from around here… eh?”

His eyes sparkle. He doesn’t say anything—just looks at me thoughtfully, in a way that steals the breath right from my lungs. A few seconds pass, and then I glance at the table and I finally remember where I am and what I’m doing.

Serving him—pretty badly, so far. He’s done eating, so I should probably clear the table and ask if he wants dessert. Before I can do anythingreallydumb while I’m on the clock, I duck around the end of the bar and head over there.

There are a bunch of photos spread out—old-looking photos. I think they’re pictures of the orchard. But I’m too busy juggling baskets and trying to avoid spilling ketchup all over everything.

Once again, autopilot comes to my rescue. “Can I get you anything else?”

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