I flinched at the words—even his expletives were redundant and unimaginative—and then pulled my gaze from his, opting to stare at the beach and wishing I’d forced myself on Sam and Eric. They were in the water, floating, talking, and probably not cussing at each other.

Even though you don’t feel calm doesn’t mean you can’t be calm. My mother’s words came back to me.

“Go away,” I said. My heartbeat and the pumping of my blood roared between my ears. My body was beyond tense, like it was bracing for a physical blow, and I felt abruptly cold and removed from my surroundings, like I was in a tunnel.

“Fine, fatty. I don’t want your fucking chubby-ass fingers on me anyway.”

I closed my eyes, waiting for the sound of his departure and trying to calm my heart. But he didn’t leave. I felt him hovering there, just beyond the little island of safety that was my towel. I was about to launch myself up and away to the water, when he spoke again.

“Yeah, glad you’re having a good time. This place is pretty great.”

I frowned my confusion—which had momentarily paralyzed me—but didn’t open my eyes.

But then Ben said, “Oh, hey Stroke,” just as I discerned a new set of footsteps approaching from behind me. Martin was walking over.

I exhaled a slow breath, my insides still feeling like icicles, and slowly opened my eyes. I kept my attention affixed to the shore as I didn’t want to look at this Ben person again, probably never.

“Hey,” Martin said from someplace nearby and over my shoulder. “What’s going on?”

“Ah, not much. Just keeping Kaitlyn company.” Ben’s voice was remarkably different, friendly, affable. “But since you’re here, I’ll just go grab some food. Do you want anything? Can I get you something?” Ben was obviously directing this solicitous question to Martin.

I wondered briefly if Martin should invest in a poison tester of some sort. I wouldn’t trust Ben with a snake I didn’t like, let alone to bring me food that wasn’t tainted with arsenic.

“No,” Martin said.

I nearly laughed, despite my brittle state. Martin’s simple no sounded like so much more than a no. It sounded like a warning and a threat, like a dismissal and a command. I was impressed how much distain he’d managed to pack into a single syllable word.

“Okay, well…” At last I heard Ben’s feet move against the sand. “I’m starving so I’m going to eat. See you two later.”

I remained still even when I was sure Ben had left. I couldn’t quite pry my fingers from where they held my legs tightly tucked against me.

Growing up, I’d struggled a bit with my size, but not in the way most people approach size frustrations. I struggled and worked to accept it. I wished I could be different, yet because I trusted my mother and her assurances there was nothing wrong with me or the way I looked, that the baby fat was normal for me and that my body would shed it eventually, I never fought against the rolls.

I was a pudgy kid and very, very short through most of my childhood; then, during my sophomore year of high school, I stretched out and grew four inches basically overnight. I grew another two inches in my junior year.

But I’ve never been lean and firm; rather, I’ve always been soft and curved. I did rather like the line of my waist, however, because it tapered dramatically beneath my ribs, then flared out again to my hips—an hourglass, my mother had said with a smile, defining it for me.

She told me I should be proud of my healthy shape and healthy body, and love and treasure it because it was mine. No one, she said, could tell me what to think of my body. If I let another person’s opinion matter I was giving him or her control over me, and I had complete control over my self-image.

That’s what she said.

But that wasn’t the truth, not really. Because even though I knew Ben was a bottom feeder of the worst sort and his opinion mattered just as much as the coruscations in the sea, words like fatty hurt, no matter the source.

I felt Martin’s eyes on me and I wished I had a shirt, a bathrobe, or a big plastic trash bag to cover the imperfections of my shape. Furthermore, I wished I’d junk punched Ben when I’d had the chance.

Martin moved, walking on Sam’s towel and sitting next to me. I lifted my chin and kept my eyes on the horizon; I was not yet ready to look at him. I was still trying to gain control of my scattered feelings. I was also attempting to suppress the self-consciousness creeping from my chest to my throat and choking me. I was this awkward, pudgy girl, the color of chalk, sitting alongside a muscled and bronzed Greek god.

Martin stretched his long legs in front of him; he rested a hand behind me so his arm and chest brushed against the bare skin of my arm and back. The contact was a spark in my tunnel of frigid numbness. Then he leaned forward, nuzzled my cheek softly with his nose, and placed a gentle kiss on my jaw. Unexpectedly, I felt myself melt.

“Hey, Parker,” he whispered, then kissed the hollow of my cheek. “What’s wrong?”

I shook my head even as my body instinctively leaned into him, my shoulder resting against his chest. He felt good, solid, warm.

“Why is that guy here?” I asked.

Martin glanced over his shoulder to where his teammates were eating, then faced me again. “Did he say something to you?”

I cleared my throat then answered with another question, “Why would you invite him? After what he tried to do to you.”

He exhaled softly, then brushed the back of his fingers down the length of my arm to my elbow; his eyes followed the path. He seemed to be studying my hand where it gripped my leg.

“Because he’s strong and we, the boat, need him to win.” His voice held an edge of ire, but I knew it wasn’t directed at me.

I slid my eyes to the side, considered this news and Martin’s expression. He didn’t look happy about having Ben there. In fact, he looked angrily resigned. I got the impression he wasn’t used to making compromises, and this one felt wrong and unwieldy.

“He tried to drug you,” I stated with a fervor that surprised me, feeling outraged on Martin’s behalf.

“I didn’t say I trust him. I said we need him. Trusting and needing someone are usually mutually exclusive.” Martin lifted his dazzling eyes to mine. This close I was startled to see they were the exact color of the ocean. Flecks of green, silver, and turquoise radiated from his pupil like a starburst.

“But sometimes, rarely…,” he started, stopped, his attention drifting to my lips briefly, “you meet someone you need, who you can also trust.”

He stared at me and I stared back, feeling muddled and disbelieving the implication of his words. He allowed me to struggle for a full minute, then he reached for my hand and pried it from my leg, holding it lightly, reverently.

“Kaitlyn, did Ben say something to you? Because if he did I’ll get rid of him.” Martin’s eyes narrowed by a fraction and his gaze grew penetrating, searching.

I gathered an expansive breath and turned from Martin’s probing stare. His obvious concern was doing strange things to me. This protectiveness didn’t feel like possessiveness, and I wondered how often I’d lamentably mistaken one for the other.

I didn’t want to lie. But if Martin could live with Ben trying to drug and extort him for the sake of team cohesion, then I guess I could live with a few nasty words.

Of course, there was the whole Ben drugging girls for undefined reasons issue...

I looked over the water as I spoke. “Martin, I didn’t tell you this on Friday when I saw you at the party, but you’re not the first person Ben has tried to drug. When he was talking to that girl, he made it sound like…like he’s been drugging girls for a while. That can really only mean one thing, right?”

I peeked at Martin and his scowl was fierce. He said through gritted teeth, “Thanks for letting me know. I’ll handle Ben. He won’t—” he stopped, exhaled slowly, “he won’t be doing that again.”

“But what about what he’s done so far?”

“I’ll take care of that too.”

“He’s so awful. He’s…he’s like ammonium dichromate with mercury thiocyanate. He’s the college boy equivalent of the bowels of hell.”

Martin’s smile was sudden and its unexpectedness seemed to take us both by surprise; he laughed lightly at my analogy, but he also looked concerned. “Hey, did he say something to you? Before I came over?”

“I don’t like him,” I said, then rushed on when I feared Martin would see I was being evasive. “He’s unpleasant and creepy and I don’t want to talk about him anymore. Let’s talk about chemistry.”

I felt rather than saw Martin’s small smile because he’d leaned forward and nipped my shoulder, his lips hovering against my skin. “Yes, let’s talk about chemistry. We have excellent chemistry.”

I leaned a tad to the side and away because his soft lips, sharp teeth, and hot mouth were overwhelming to my chest, stomach, and pants.

“I meant our assignment. I brought all my notes, I think we should start on the literature search this afternoon.”

“Na-ah.” Martin lifted his head, placed my hand on his thigh, and then gathered several stray strands of hair away from my face. He tucked them behind my ear. “We’re leaving. You and I have plans.”