I glared at him. “That’s a lie.”

“No. It’s not. I’ve never…,” he cleared his throat, “…you’re the first girl I’ve wanted…like this.” He sounded enormously frustrated and his fingers dug into my hip and ribs where he held me. When he spoke next it was through gritted teeth. “I just wish you’d be less stubborn.”

“You can’t always have your way.”

“I know that. If I had my way we’d be naked right now in the ocean or…shit, doing anything other than discussing more reasons why you don’t think this is going to work.”

My instinct was to pacify him, reach forward and soothe his bad temper, promise I would stop being difficult and just give in to the fantasy of this being my reality. But I couldn’t ignore reason and logic, even if I was strangely flattered by his caveman displays, possessive impatience, and apparent fixation.

And also…skinny-dipping with Martin = pre-bedtime imagery for the win.

Heat raced up my neck and over my cheeks and I squeezed my eyes shut, gathering a deep breath. I hoped to also re-gather my wits, because right that minute they were skinny-dipping with Martin some hundred yards away in the Caribbean.

“And now you’re blushing.” He didn’t sound pleased about this. He sounded frustrated and resentful.

“What do you expect?” I asked, then opened my eyes. “I’m not used to this. It’s going to take me some time to get used to the idea that you’re interested in me. For cripe’s sake, it’s been forty-eight hours and we’re not even dating—”

“We are dating. Remember, we’re having tacos and soon we’re going to have lots of dance lessons.” His eyes drifted to the love marks on my neck and he smirked. It was a satisfied, pleased smirk.

A jerk smirk.

“Well, future tacos notwithstanding,” strategically and stubbornly, I ignored his reference to dance lessons, “I know I’m not your girlfriend, and even if I were I wouldn’t want to be peed on.”

Martin choked on air then gave me a squirrely look. “Peed on?”

“You know, figuratively and—for the record—literally. If we got to a place where we became ‘involved’,” I used air quotes to emphasize involved, because it seemed like an odd word, but the most appropriate for the situation, “I don’t think I’d be happy with you marking your territory, unless some guy were being inappropriate with me and I sent out the boyfriend bat symbol.”

He glared at me, his gaze searching. Then he nodded. “Fine. If I go all day tomorrow without…peeing on you,” his lips twitched, but he quickly schooled his expression, “if I do that, then you’ll come to the party with me tomorrow night.”

What should have been a request or a question was once again a declaration. I stared at him. I really hated parties.

But he looked…oddly hopeful.

Oddly hopeful on Martin Sandeke made my heart melt. His expression, plus the feel of him all around me, meant I really didn’t have much of a choice.

“Fine.” I sighed, trying not to sound like a petulant teenager and mostly succeeding. “I’ll go.”

CHAPTER 11

Stoichiometry: Calculations with Chemical Formulas and Equations

Martin didn’t pee on me. In fact, he didn’t even look at me or talk to me for most of the day.

Like the day before, the guys were up early practicing, Sam and I assumed our spots on the beach, and they arrived in the early afternoon for food. I left as soon as Ben arrived. He made me feel uncomfortable and icky—and I knew that was on me. I should have been able to ignore him, but I couldn’t. So I left.

I milled around the house, exploring, expecting Martin to show up. He didn’t. I found the music room—yes, this compound of excess had its own music room, with signed gold records from rock and country music legends lining the walls, signed concert posters, and pictures of a tall, lanky, geeky looking dude alongside several notable musicians and celebrities.

I recognized the geeky dude in the photos as Martin’s dad and noted they had the same thick hair and lips. They were likely the same height. But that’s where the similarities seemed to end. After inspecting the pictures several times, testing out the baby grand piano—it needed to be tuned—and discovering three beautiful Gibson guitars along the wall, I went back to my room and read.

Then I did some chemistry homework.

Then I took a nap.

Then I woke up on a man.

I didn’t realize it at first, because I suffered from post-nap confusion. When I did come to my senses I discovered I was half sprawled on a hard chest, and fingers were playing with my hair, brushing it back from my cheeks and neck, gathering it, twisting it, tugging it lightly.

I stiffened, shot upward, lifted my fists to defend my honor, and found Martin laying on the bed, his hands up like he surrendered.

“Whoa!” His eyes were huge and he gave me a startled smile. “Do you always jump up like that after sleeping?”

“Like what? A badass?” My voice was gravelly, still laced with sleep.

“Yeah, like a badass.”

I huffed, let my fists fall to my lap. “No. Only when I find Martin Sandeke on my bed.”

“Good to know.” His lips twisted to the side and his eyes swept up and down my form. “I’ll make sure to wear protection when I’m in your bed.”

“You should probably wear it even when we’re not in bed.”

“I always use protection.” He lifted an eyebrow meaningfully.

Pause.

Blink.

Oh…I get it.

Amazingly I didn’t blush. I just have him a half-lidded I’m not impressed glare which made him burst out laughing.

“You are such a guy.” I gave him a reluctant smile.

“What do you know about guys?” He repositioned himself on the bed, scootching up and placing his hands behind his back against the pillows.

“Admittedly, not much. My dad isn’t much of a guy.”

“What’s your dad like?” Martin sounded interested, his face suddenly sober.

“Well, let’s see. He’s a scientist. He’s always losing things. His socks never match. He loves baseball, but he can’t play it very well. He tried to get me to play softball. I’d always sneak my Gameboy in my practice bag then hide behind the bleachers and play Dr. Mario instead.”

“So he pushed you a lot?”

“No. Not at all. I think he wanted me to do it because he likes cheering for me…to be honest. He’s always the one taking pictures, at events, ceremonies, that kind of thing. He’s hardly ever in the pictures. I looked back at my high school graduation photos and realized he’d taken over a thousand, but he wasn’t in any of them. So I dressed back up in my cap and gown, did my hair the same, and—with George’s help—arranged to have a photographer come to the house so we could get some good shots.”

“Who’s George? Your ex-boyfriend? The one who didn’t know how to fool around?”

“No.” I glared at Martin, shook my head at his antics. “George is my mom’s personal assistant, he’s like an older brother to me.”

“Hmm…” Martin’s eyes narrowed a fraction, considering me, then asked, “Did your dad like that? What you did?”

I nodded, smiling at the memory. “Yeah. He did. He cried actually. Not a lot, just a little. The last time I visited him at work, I saw he’d hung up no less than six of the pictures in his office.” I laughed lightly, shaking my head. “He’s a goof.”

We were quiet for a long moment, sharing a stare. His mouth held a whisper of a smile as though he were living vicariously through my experience and found it a pleasant place to visit. It was…nice. Comfortable. Strange.

I cleared my throat, averted my eyes, finding this nice, comfortable, strange moment more disconcerting than the heated exchanges we’d shared so far. This felt like it could lead to something lasting and normal. We were Martin and Kaitlyn having a conversation, sharing things, like real people did. Not like billionaire playboys did.

“So, what about your dad?” I asked, because I was curious. I knew a lot about Martin’s dad because his dad was a genius, sickeningly rich, and seemed to be in the news all the time dating some model or actress.

“My dad…” The smile left his eyes, and the one that lingered on his lips looked false.

“Yes. The man who raised you.”

He barked a humorless laugh and his eyes closed. “He didn’t raise me.”

I studied his features—his full, delicious lips, strong jaw, high cheekbones, and thick lashes—his perfect features. So perfect. I wondered what it would be like to be perfect, or at least seen that way by the outside world. It seemed to me that perfect—the word and all its connotations—might feel a bit like a cage, a defined floor and ceiling.

“Tell me about him,” I said, knowing I was pushing.

Martin opened his eyes and the bitterness that had been absent the last few times we’d been together was back. Jaded, jerk-faced Martin.

“He didn’t come to my high school graduation.”

I blinked at him. “Oh?”