I immediately averted my gaze.

Even though you don’t feel calm doesn’t mean you can’t be calm.

“I’m going to kill him.” Sam’s voice was low with menace.

I gripped her arm to keep her in place and I shook my head, letting her see I considered the whole situation ridiculously futile. I doubted my gaze of acceptance had been very effective because I could feel tears sting my eyes. I turned back to the door and walked away from…all of that hot mess.

I heard her growl at Eric when he started to explain and felt her close behind me as I wove through the crowd. She stopped me when we reached the far end of a huge kitchen.

“God, what an asshole!” I could feel her eyeballing me. “What do you want to do?”

I shrugged and rolled my eyes so I wouldn’t cry.

I wouldn’t cry.

Nor could I deal with the funnel cloud of feelings that tore through me, because…I just couldn’t. I didn’t know what to say or do or where to look so I glanced over her shoulder. Several guys were doing keg stands near the largest refrigerator I’d ever seen.

“Kaitlyn, what do you want to do? Do you want to leave?” Sam poked me.

“No,” I said. I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to find a closet and go chill with myself, calm the rising tide of emotion. “But I do have to go to the bathroom.”

“I’ll come with.”

“No.” I shook my head as I spotted Eric hovering behind her, about five feet away. He gave me a grim, apologetic smile. “No. I’m actually fine, I just need a minute. I’ll come find you later.”

“Kaitlyn…”

“Really, I’m fine,” I yelled over the cheering keg standers and lifted my chin toward Erin, encouraging him to rescue me from Sam.

I did need a minute alone. Actually I needed several. Ironically, I was more likely to find alone time here, in this crowd, than I would if Sam and I left the party. She would want to rage against Martin, maybe pack up and leave the island tonight. I didn’t want to do that. I wanted to gather my thoughts, leave the party in a few hours, and fulfill my end of the bargain.

Then in the morning, after a very calm, rational discussion with Martin Sandeke, wherein I spelled out all the very factual reasons he and I would never work—for example, how I now hated him with the fire of all the furnaces in hell, and that he was a lying liar who lied when he said he would never hurt me—I would leave the island.

I wouldn’t cry.

I wouldn’t accuse.

I hadn’t really expected any better from Martin, so why should I be surprised now? Just because he gave me an orgasm near a waterfall. So what? It’s not like he’d given me a unicorn. It was just an orgasm.

I would not cry. I would simply leave.

As soon as I arrived home, I would email my chemistry professor and request a new lab partner. And if I was very careful—and very lucky—I would never have to set eyes on jerk-face Martin Sandeke ever again.