And upward.

I’m not short. I’m five eight. But this guy is a good six inches taller than me, and he stretches his lanky arms above his head in a leisurely gesture. “No,” he says, and his eyes sparkle with some kind of mischief. “But you will.”

And then we stand.

And stare.

At each other.

This isn’t me; tongue-twisted over some guy, drooling over a granite physique. It makes me feel right and wrong at once and by turns until I want to walk out of my skin to get away from the contradiction.

“I’m Tavia,” I say, thrusting my hand out. I have to do something. The tension is killing me and I can’t figure out what I want. What I don’t want.

They seem to be the same thing.

He looks at my hand but ignores it. “I know who you are.”

Of course he does. I wait.

And wait.

Is he going to make me ask?

“We should talk,” he says as he stoops to grab a coat from the sand, then slips his lean arms into it. “I have things to show you and our time is short.”

“I don’t know your name,” I blurt.

He smiles all the way now, showing broad teeth and tiny crinkles on each side of his eyes. “You’re beautiful, you know that?” My legs shake as he lifts his hand to my face, his fingers just a hair’s breadth from my cheek. “I like you this way,” he whispers. I close my eyes, waiting for the touch to land.

It doesn’t.

After a few seconds I open my eyes, embarrassed. But he’s not looking at me. He’s turned half away and his eyebrows are folded low.

“Why are you doing this?” I choke. “I don’t understand any of it.”

“I wish I could explain everything right now, but it will take time. You must trust me. I know I’ve done nothing to deserve it,” he adds before I can argue. “But please, please trust me.”

My head is nodding even as I bite my lip, letting go when my teeth touch the sore, cracked skin. Stupid ocean air. It gives me a moment of clarity and I fight the woozy, agreeable feeling that fills my head. “No offense, but why should I trust you?” I snap. “You won’t tell me anything and you keep running off. I need you to talk to me.”

“Next time,” he says, a touch of promise in his voice. “You know I cannot linger tonight. A promise,” he adds. “I shall bring something to help you understand next we meet. Agreed?”

“You can’t come here again,” I warn. “Not like this. You’ll get us both in trouble.”

He nods soberly, almost as if he expected that. “Don’t look for me. I’ll find you.”

It appears that’s the best I’m going to get. He’s right—he can’t stay. Not now. “Okay,” I concede. My whole body trembles as I say it. I’m afraid of what I’ve just agreed to.

He turns and his long coat billows out for just a second, falling back around his legs with a whisper. “Be safe,” he says. I think he says it. But it’s so quiet I might have imagined it.

“Wait!” I say, jumping after him.

“Soon,” he calls without turning. “Soon.”

“But—” I don’t even know what to say; I’m completely out of control here. Of the situation. Of him. Of myself.

A light laugh escapes him and I start to feel angry, but he spins to walk backward and his eyes meet mine with an innocent playfulness. “Since names matter so much to you, it’s Quinn,” he says with a smile. “Quinn Avery.”

Quinn Avery.

Two simple words, but they mean everything.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Where are you? My fingers shake as I text Benson.

Library. About to leave, he replies about a minute later.

We need to talk. I feel weird texting Benson, the guy I liked last week, about Quinn, the guy I apparently like this week.

The other guy I like this week. It’s so weird, when Quinn is around, it’s like I can’t focus on anything else. He overwhelms my senses and I float in a cloud as blissful as it is terrifying. But when he’s gone, reality creeps back in and I don’t know what to think.

I know I should give Benson up as a lost cause, but he’s like a forest fire—everything started off with a spark too small to even notice until it blazed into something more. I couldn’t simply douse those feelings even if I wanted to.

And now I’m going to tell him about Quinn? What am I doing?

But I’m bursting with this new revelation—he has a name and he wants to see me again! And who else can I tell? I’m not about to call my therapist—again—at almost eight o’clock at night.

I try not to think about his other words. I am not the one whom you should fear. I’ve spent the entire day being afraid. Right now I want a few minutes, an hour maybe, to just be happy.

After pleading a forgotten homework assignment to Reese, I get her to let me borrow her car to run to the library. I’ve got less than half an hour before it closes. When I get there, I park and walk through the front doors as fast as my sore leg will let me, looking for Benson. I don’t care if he doesn’t understand. I’ve listened to him practically compose sonnets about Dana McCraven for the last two months and dealt with it; he can listen to me now.

It’s better this way, I tell myself. Now we’ll both have someone. But the thought makes me feel strangely hollow.

He’s leaning over the counter, talking softly with Marie. My heart gives a funny leap as my eyes skim him from head to toe—taking advantage of the moment before he realizes I’m there. He’s still wearing the soft gray sweater-vest over a light green button-up shirt from earlier, but now the sleeves are rolled up, emphasizing the definition of his forearms. As I watch, he pushes his glasses up his nose a little and makes a face at Marie.