This morning, Ryan adds value to the view. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing well-muscled forearms, and when he bends down to pick up a lovely purple seashell, I find myself fascinated by his hands. They’re large and strong, but as they hold the shell, I can’t help but think that his touch would be surprisingly gentle.

I start to pick up my pace because, hello, mind really not supposed to be going there, but he reaches for me, holding the shell in his outstretched hand. “A souvenir,” he says, and though his smile is casual, there’s nothing easy about the heat in his eyes. His gaze is hot enough to cut right through me. The hair at the back of my neck prickles, and for a moment, I’m not certain I remember how to breathe. “I’d hate for you to get back to Texas and forget everything you’ve left behind.”

“Oh.” My voice sounds breathy, and I take the shell, my fingers brushing his palm as I do. I feel the shock of contact all the way down to my toes, and I expect him to pull me close. To touch me. To do some damn thing so that I’m not just standing there feeling all hot and horny.

He does nothing—and the sharp prick of irritation breaks through the wall of lust. I close my hand around the shell and force myself to aim an equally casual smile back at him. “Thanks.”

I’m grateful my voice sounds normal despite the fact that I am both genuinely moved and undeniably irritated. Moved because it’s a lovely shell and the gesture is very sweet. Irritated because now I’m getting mixed signals from a hot guy who still hasn’t touched me and who I have absolutely no business being interested in.

My libido, however, still hasn’t gotten the message because there’s some serious sizzle and pop going on. To be honest, there’s been sizzle and pop since the first time I met Ryan.

Down girl.

I take a deep breath and mentally recite what has now become a mantra: Plan. Texas. New leaf. New Jamie.

I start walking again because he’s made me too antsy to just stand still. “Are you flying back today?” he asks, falling easily into step with me.

“Not flying. Driving.” I see the confusion on his face—Nikki had been stuck in a meeting and had asked Ryan to pick me up at the airport just over a week ago. Yet another encounter where I felt both sizzle and pop—but he didn’t touch me once.

Honestly, I need to stop this mental tally; I’m going to give myself a complex.

“Planning on doing a little recreational car shopping today?”

“Nikki and Damien gave me a car for my birthday,” I mumble, because I’m still a bit embarrassed by such an extravagant gift. Not that it’s extravagant to a guy like Damien. I’m pretty sure that to him, Australia wouldn’t be too much.

“Happy birthday,” Ryan says in the kind of voice that makes me think that he would make a damn good present. Especially with a big red bow in just the right place.

I clear my throat, banishing the thought. “Right. Yeah, well, it’s not really my birthday. They were planning on just giving it to me because, you know, my Corolla has seen better days. And I said I couldn’t accept it, and Nikki said...” I trail off, shrugging.

“She’s a good friend.” He’s walking in the surf now, the waves breaking around his feet.

“Cold.” I say, nodding toward his feet.

“A little.” He tilts his head up, his gaze taking me in before he finally meets my eyes. “But I’m willing to put up with all sorts of things if it gets me something I want.”

Wow. “Right.” I swallow, then curl my hands into fists so that I don’t lean in, grab his collar, and kiss him. “Um. So. What is it you want?”

“To walk on the beach with you, of course.”

And there it is. That pow, that snap. He takes my hand, the gesture light and casual. Seemingly friendly, but really it’s so much more.

He’s intense, I think. Strong. Silent. Steady. The kind of guy who knows what he wants and goes after it methodically and relentlessly.

Is he going after me? I shiver a little as I slide into a nice little From Here to Eternity fantasy. Not that I’ve ever actually watched the movie, but I’ve seen that famous sex in the surf scene, and I’m more than happy to let my imagination fill in the blanks.

“You’re not driving back to Texas today, are you?” He is watching me closely, his eyes as deep and intense as the Pacific behind us. “You were up all night. You shouldn’t risk it.”

“I’m not,” I say, imagining the surf crashing over me and Ryan’s body hot above me. “I’m staying the night and heading out first thing tomorrow.”

“I’m very glad to hear it.” His voice is as smooth as whiskey, and I wonder if I’m getting a little bit drunk on it. “I’d worry about you.”

I stand there, feeling nine kinds of itchy, and wait for him to make a move. But the move doesn’t come.

I tell myself that’s a good thing.

Then I tell myself I’m a goddamn liar.

Then I remind myself about The Plan.

But you know what? Screw The Plan. The Plan is for Texas, after all. I mean, I’ve pretty much already established that when in California, Jamie Archer is a hot mess. So why not be a mess one last time with this incredibly sexy guy who is making me tingle?

Except that doesn’t seem to be an option.

Because Ryan isn’t making a move. I consider making a pass myself. After all, I’ve never once been shy about going after a guy I wanted in my bed. With Ryan, though, I can’t seem to take that first step, and it’s weird. I’m feeling shy and awkward, and I am never shy or awkward.

Maybe it’s the lingering effect of The Plan. Residual guilt. Pre-justification. My subconscious telling me that if he pursues me, then a California fuck is okay. But me going after him is totally against the rules.

All of which is a load of twisted and convoluted bullshit, but I never said my subconscious was a linear thinker.

Just go for it.

Holy crap, this shouldn’t be that difficult. I mean, honestly. When I decided to bang Kevin in 2H, I cornered him in the laundry room, put my hand on his crotch, and asked him if he wanted to fuck. So why the hell am I all sixth-grade girl with a crush where Ryan Hunter is concerned?

Right. Okay. Diving in now...

I clear my throat. “So here’s the thing,” I say, and I don’t get any further. Maybe, I think, he’ll pick up the thread.

He doesn’t. He just looks at me, all innocent interest and calm curiosity. His expression is bland, and yet I have the distinct impression that he’s amused.

“It’s just that I can’t figure you out,” I blurt.

“Can’t you?”

“We’ve had some good times, right? And I’ve seen you look at me.” I lick my lips, hating how nervous I feel. “And I know I’ve looked at you. So what’s the deal?”

“The deal?”

I tilt my head a little and give him my best seductive smile. “You’ve never made a pass at me,” I say in the kind of voice that makes clear I would be very receptive to one right now.

“No,” he says, “I haven’t.”

“Oh.” I mentally backpedal. That wasn’t the response I was expecting. “Okay. So, why not? You’re just not interested?”