Except… I wasn’t.
Because tonight, like the last three nights, I couldn’t seem tostopmyself from remembering every single moment of our interaction Friday, from the minute Fenn had appeared in the bathroom like a white knight who knew where the shutoff valve was, to the second he’d fallen on top of me—which shouldnothave been amusingorcomfortable given what a behemoth he was, but had actually been both until it was neither.
I… just… really…likedthe guy.
There. I admitted it.
We had fuck all in common, he was a total asshole, and he wasn’tnearlyas amusing as he thought he was, but he’d bought me a freakin’ night-light and some yummy dinner, so I was pissed at myself for ruining things.
And even weirder, how the fuck had I gotten arousedfor a manwhen it fit preciselyzeropatterns?
Unassailable medical fact: most guys got erectionsall the time—doing sportsball things, or in the aftermath of danger, or when the fuckingbreezeblew too hard. And by the law of averages, sometimes other guys happened to be around when that happened. So, it could bepossiblethat I hadn’t been hardforFenn, I’d just been hardnearhim—an accidental erection caused by endorphins, or adrenaline, or simple friction.
Correlation versus causation, right?
The only flaw in this logic was that I had never really been the sort of person who popped wood all over the place, not even as a teenager. I didn’t have a problem getting an erection, with the right amount of effort, I just tended not to get them when I didn’t need them, and I fucking didnotneed one last Friday.
You’re not a passionate person, Mason, I heard Victoria saying, like it was incontrovertible fact.
So why,why, was I suddenlypassionateabout the man formerly known as Serial Killer Guy, of all people on earth? My whole body flushed with embarrassment.
Maybe I needed to try Beale’s healing crystals on mybrain.
I pushed myself off the bed and went to tinker with the air-conditioning unit under the window for the seven hundredth time in the past couple of days. The dial was set as cold as it could go, the blower was turned up to eleven, and the machine was making a racket like it was crushing ice for a margarita or preparing to launch the whole island into space, but exactlynothinghappened, just like the other six hundred ninety-nine times I’d done this.
I turned around and sank down to the carpet with my back against the wall, resting my elbows on my bent knees and letting the thin stream of barely cool air wash over my sweaty skin. It had to be over a hundred degrees in the room, and I was roasting, even wearing nothing but boxer briefs. It didn’t help that I had every incandescent bulb in the place glowing and the windows firmly shut, but there was another goddamn storm blowing over Whispering Key, whipping the palm trees next door around in the moonlight, and there were worse things than a little heatstroke.
Like thunderstorms. And darkness. And thunderstormsinthe darkness.
It’s not a phobia if you can handle it,I reminded myself.It’s a concern.
But then a bead of sweat ran down my forehead, and suddenly I was right back in that shower with Fenn.
Fenn, who’d bought me a night-light that wasn’t quite bright enough.
Fenn, who had well-formed abdominal muscles and nicely constructed shoulders.
Fenn, whose face had been poised above me, whose breath had mingled with mine, whose blue, blue eyes had been full of amusement and concern and just…fuck… appreciation…
Fenn, who wouldn’t talk to me.
My stomach ached like I’d been whacked in the solar plexus.
I jumped up and straightened the brand-new coverlet on my bed, then lay down on top of it again, this time with my arms and legs spread wide to catch any hint of a breeze the AC might decide to spit out. It was too hot to unpack anymore, and I was wary of the shower after the first disaster. I was too amped to read, and too tired to concentrate on puzzles. The television got three channels, one of which was local cable news, and another a Spanish psychic who reminded me a lot of Lety, so I’d picked the program I could ignore most easily—a truly annoying infomercial about an oscillating dumbbell that promised to amp up my workouts. I considered turning it off entirely and going to sleep, but flashes of lightning still lit the sky through the thin curtains, making that a Very Bad Idea.
Really, what kind of idiot forgot Florida was the thunderstorm capital of America when he was making his life plans?This fucking idiot right here.
Thunder boomed outside, and I grabbed my phone to see if there were any new jobs on MedLister, because getting off this island was my top priority.
There was one near Atlanta, which could be nice, if it paid more. Another was for a town in Iowa, which sounded a lot like O’Leary: zero adventure and exponentially more corn. But the one with an international charity organization traveling to impoverished third-world countries was a little toomuchadventure for a guy who couldn’t handle a broken shower knob. None of them seemed quite right.
Because you’re Goldilocks all of a sudden and have the luxury of waiting for something just right?
I rolled my eyes at myself, forced myself to apply for all three jobs, and sent Rafe Goodman an email that he should be expecting some phone calls from these placesandthe others I’d already applied for over the weekend. I was sure any potential employer would want an explanation of my two-minute stay here on Whispering Key.
Sadly, none of that process took very long at all. Less time than it took for, say, the sky to stop flashing. Or for some muscle-bound idiot to sell me a vibrating dumbbell.
Definitely less time than it took for me to stop obsessing over Fenn Reardon.
