I felt like Scarlett O’Hara after she was kissed by Rhett Butler, confused and anxious and swoony and wanting it to happen again.

Sam and I had a brief argument after that, and by some miracle she agreed to come with me. Honestly, I don’t think she felt like she had a choice since I stubbornly insisted I was going, and she lacked the time necessary to argue me out of it.

However, all the arguing and promising and name-calling aside, a large part of me was strangely excited about the trip. I was nineteen years old and the dodgiest thing I’d ever done was drink peach schnapps and drunk dial my ex last summer. I’d never thrown caution to the wind before. I’d never done anything this nutty and spontaneous. It was equal parts thrilling, terrifying, and confusing.

So…here we were. On the plane, with Martin, his handsome friend Eric from the fraternity party, and seven other dudes, most of whom looked like they’d stepped out of an Abercrombie and Finch photo-shoot; except they had clothes on, unfortunately. Sam and I were the only females if you didn’t count the two flight attendants.

We’d been briefly introduced to the boys upon entering the plane. Martin had referred to a few of them by a number first, then by first name.

Interestingly, they didn’t seem to be surprised by our presence. I was also pretty sure they were checking me out, but not in the, I might hit that checking me out. More like a, Are you a Yoko Ono? checking me out.

As I shook everyone’s hand I was surprised to see that one of the seven guys was Ben, the cuss monster from my time spent in the science cabinet. I couldn’t fathom why Martin would have him come along, especially given the fact he’d tried to drug then extort Martin the night before.

Maybe they’d man-hugged it out.

Boys were just weird.

I made a mental note to tell Martin the entire conversation between Ben and the unknown female, because Ben had basically admitted to drugging girls. And there was really only one reason he could be drugging girls. He was Ben the rapist as far as I was concerned and I wanted nothing to do with him.

Sam and I took a seat in the front of the plane after introductions and left the males to their bonding.

I felt the mounting pressure of Sam’s glare; she pressed her lips together in my general direction, looking displeased and surly.

“I can’t believe we did this, I can’t believe I let you talk me into this. How did that happen? How did we get here? And now we’re going to some private beach in the middle of the Caribbean? This is crazy.”

“It is kind of crazy.” I shrugged, feeling shell shocked by the fact I was on this plane and all the circumstances leading up to this moment. Less than twenty-four hours ago I’d kissed Martin Sandeke—or rather, he’d kissed me. And then it happened again…and again. He’d placed his hands on my body like he had a right to do so, and I let him.

My skin still remembered his touch. Just thinking about his hands on me made my breasts feel tight and heavy, and my neck, back, and arms break out in goosebumps. I was warm all over and felt a little drunk with excitement and fear.

“But,” I started, stopped, gave my head a quick shake, then began again, “but…it’s okay. We’re okay. We’re together. If we get there and we don’t want to stay we can leave.”

“And go where? Do what? Swim to Jamaica?”

I shook my head, fighting back the swelling tide of Martin-inspired lust.

“No. I sent George, my mother’s PA, a message. George knows the flight information, where we are. Worst case scenario, I call him and he arranges for us to leave. We’re good.”

Sam looked at me for several soundless seconds, then blurted, “You told your mother?”

“Of course. Well, technically I told her personal assistant, George. As the daughter of a senator I have to inform her any time I leave the country.”

“You don’t think she’s going to freak out?”

“No. Why would she? I’m using the buddy system. She knows where I am, and with whom, and for how long, and why.”

Although, I was still a bit uncertain as to why…

“You ladies need any drinks?”

Both Sam and I glanced up to find handsome Eric hovering in the aisle, poised at the precipice to our secluded island of four seats. Sam stared at him, like she was confused by his presence.

“What?” she asked.

“Drinks. Do you need any…drinks?”

“No. No drinks.” She crossed her arms and tilted her head to the side, her eyes narrowing as though she were inspecting him. “You’re shorter than I remembered.”

He returned her eye squint and raised her a smirk. “Maybe you’re suffering from altitude sickness. You should probably get up and walk around, stretch your legs.”

More squint staring ensued and now they were both smirking.

At length, Sam nodded and said, “I could stretch my legs.”

I eyeballed her as she quickly unbuckled her seatbelt and stood, all the while her gaze affixed to handsome Eric. His smirk became a grin when she stepped into the aisle and his eyes visibly brightened when she moved a tad closer to him.

“Let me give you a tour of the plane,” he offered helpfully like a boy scout. “You can lean on me if we experience any turbulence.”

“Sure thing,” she drawled, sounding surly and amused at the same time. “Lead the way, shorty.”

Eric rubbed the back of his neck and breathed a laugh as the two of them walked off together to the front of the plane. I craned my neck and watched them depart with borderline rapt fascination.

When Sam laughed at something Eric said I could watch no longer without labeling myself a creeper. So I relaxed—as much as I could relax—back in my seat and stared at my hands.

“Parker.”

I jumped at the sound of my name coming from Martin’s lips and turned to face him. I also, for reasons known only to my subconscious, balled my hands into fists and lifted them between us, like I was prepared for a fist fight or a boxing match.

He studied my defensive posturing and smirked, taking the seat Sam had vacated without asking permission. Meanwhile I glared at him, my mental wall up and prepped, though my hands fell back to my lap. I had to do this because…super-hot boy alert level ten thousand.

“Sandeke,” I said. I knew I sounded ridiculous, like I was greeting a sworn enemy, but I had to be on guard.

His gaze skated over my face then flickered to my hands, still fists on my lap. Then he gave my hands a smile. Apparently they amused him.

“Are you going to hit me?”

“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “It depends on if you take your pants off again.”

“You’ll hit me if I take my pants off?”

“Yeah…I might give you a junk punch.”

He laughed, very loudly and very suddenly, and with the complete abandon that comes from being surprised. But his laugh was a radioactive seduction and had a half-life of infinity. I wanted him to stop laughing never. It made his eyes crinkle and his mouth curve in a sinful smile, showcasing his excellent dental hygiene regimen.

He also looked so different. He usually wore an expression of perpetual unimpressed boredom. Perpetual unimpressed boredom was a good look for him, a very good look. As were all the other expressions I’d seen, like distrust, mischievous amusement, thunderous anger, unveiled interest, etc.

But laughter…he almost looked happy. Happiness on Martin was a revelation of beauty and physical perfection married to excellent and infectious good-mood vibes. I let my fists drop. Less than a minute into our first interaction on this trip and my carefully constructed defenses had been virtually blown to bits.

I might as well wave the white panties of surrender.

“Oh, well. Barnacles,” I said to nothing and no one.

His laugh gradually receded and his eyes flickered over me. “No more fists.”

“Nope. There’s no use.” I’m sure I sounded despondent.

“So you think I could take you in a fist fight?”

“I think you could take me whenever.” I shrugged. “If you wanted to, and I really only have myself to blame.”

Martin narrowed his eyes, and they sharpened, surveying me. “You don’t look happy about this.”

“I’m not.”

“Why not?”

I stared at him for a beat then freely admitted the truth. “Here is the problem, Martin. I feel like I like you.”

The sharpness in his gaze softened and his mouth curved into a lazy, satisfied smile. “That doesn’t sound like a problem to me.”

“But it is,” I pressed. “Because the feeling originates entirely in my pants.”

Martin choked a shocked laugh, and leaned away from me.

I rushed to continue. “Hence the problem, you see? I know you as my lab partner who won’t help me tabulate findings. And I also know you as a bit of a—and pardon the expression—as a bit of a manwhore who is not nice to the girls he sleeps with and who gets into fist fights, and who is somewhat bitter and jaded despite having the world at his fingertips.”

Martin clenched his jaw. His lids drooped into unhappy slits and he flinched just slightly. His long fingers tightened on his legs.

I ignored the outward signs of irritation, wanting to make him see reason. “We have nothing in common. You’re in a fraternity, go to parties on purpose, own a yacht, and are the king of the universe.” I pressed both of my hands to my chest. “And I’m an unapologetic nerd who thinks it’s fun to spend Saturday nights playing my guitar and writing music. I like arguing about Doctor Who episodes, and whether Samwise Gamgee or Frodo Baggins was ultimately responsible for the destruction of the ring. I play video games. I limit myself to three cookies, but then always cheat and have seven. Meanwhile you look like you’ve never had a cookie in your life. I’m a virgin and you’re only the second boy I’ve kissed… We just don’t fit.” I said this last part quietly, gently, hoping he’d see reason.