His eyes narrowed a fraction, but I saw reluctant understanding ignite behind his expression.

“Are you always like this?”

“Like what? Brilliant?” I teased.

“Yeah…brilliant.”

***

I caught Martin staring at me no less than twenty times during the next few hours. And each time he looked a little dazed, like he was caught in the web of his own imagination. Sometimes I’d stare back, narrowing my eyes and administering a mock suspicious look. He’d smile—slow and lazy and sexy—then kiss me.

One thing was for certain: Martin Sandeke was using his big brain to work through an issue of enormous proportions.

Meanwhile, I worked on my last term paper in between conversations with Martin. He told me about his vision for the future of telecommunications and how satellites were going to play an essential role.

Science may not have been my passion, like I was wondering if music truly was, but I had a great deal of interest in science related topics. He told me all about the seventeen—SEVENTEEN!!—patents he held. Although, when I’d asked him if he was going to use the money from his inventions as the source for the sixty million he needed for the venture capitalist project, he’d laughed.

Inventing stuff, he explained, was fun. It was his hobby, but none of his inventions would ever bring in enough money.

When I asked him what he defined as enough money, he responded grimly, “Enough will be three times whatever my father is worth at any given time.”

Seeing as how his father was a billionaire, this answer struck me as supercilious and off key. Making enough money sounded like an unhealthy obsession and dissonant with happiness.

I didn’t voice this opinion.

By mid-afternoon the boat was ensconced in a torrential downpour, I’d grown used to his dazed stares, and—sadly—it was time to head back to the island.

We weren’t going back to the big house, as we were going to the aforementioned cottage on the opposite side of the island, where Eric and Sam had been since Wednesday. I hoped she wasn’t too irritated at me for my lack of communication…

I felt guilty about it, like a bad friend.

At present, Martin was in the captain’s chair, steering us back, and I was trying to catch him unawares by lobbing rapid-fire questions at him, attempting to get him to admit something embarrassing.

“Favorite movie?”

“Wall Street.”

“Favorite food?”

“Black licorice.”

I paused, his answer surprising, but then pressed forward. “Favorite color?”

“Black.”

“Black?”

“Yes.”

I thought about this, then asked because I felt compelled, “How can it be black?”

“Most people’s favorite color is black, but they’re too fixated on what others think to admit the truth, even to themselves. Think about it, what color is represented in your closet more than any other? Is it blue? Green? Red? No. It’s black.”

“But black is depressing, it’s the color of funerals and dark rooms and despair.”

He gave me a half smile and almost rolled his eyes, but not quite. “In Japan, the color associated with funerals is white. Dark rooms can be fun. Also, black feels like something new to me, like the sky right before dawn.”

“Martin Sandeke, that was almost poetic.”

“You’re easy to talk to.” He didn’t sound precisely happy about this.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It might be. I say things to you I’ve never said or told anyone.” He looked serious as he admitted this, gazing down at me with either resentment or longing, I couldn’t tell which.

So I tried to disarm the sudden tension by saying, “That’s because you loooove me.”

He rolled his eyes. But he also smiled.

***

“Spill it.”

“What?”

“Everything.” Sam elongated the word, over-pronouncing each syllable. “Spill it all. Spill it all over the place. Dump it out—on the floor, on the ceiling, on the duvet—spew it all, every last bit of it, because I am so far past interested, I’ve entered the neighboring territory of obsessively curious.”

I glanced at her from the corner of my eye. She was staring at me, wide-eyed, mouth in a tight line, jaw set. It was her game face. She meant business.

It was nearly dinner time. We’d arrived about a half hour ago. Martin had anchored the boat and tied it to a small wooden dock adjacent to the cottage, then we’d raced through the rain to the cottage.

The cottage was actually everything I thought of when I thought beach cottage. It was cozy and small, had two bedrooms and one bathroom, a postage stamp kitchen with a breakfast bar, and a combined family room/living room. The place was also decorated in nautical themes. Crafty mosaics of sea glass and shells lined the walls, and a big, rusty anchor hung above the front door.

Sam and I were currently in my room—well, the room Martin and I would share for the night—and I was going through my things. Sam and Eric had brought most of my stuff from the big house, but several items were missing; so far one of my textbooks, a folder of class notes, and several shirts. The textbook and the shirts were no big deal, but I needed the folder.

Also, it gave me an excellent excuse to postpone responding to Sam’s questioning.

“Kaitlyn…you’re stalling.”

“I’m trying to figure out if all my stuff is here.”

“You’re stalling.”

I huffed, turned to face her, and threw my hands in the air. “Yes. Yes I’m stalling.”

“Why are you stalling?”

“Because I don’t know how much I’m ready to share with you. I haven’t decided.”

“How much? How much?” she sputtered for a moment, her eyes sweeping up then down my body. “Well, how much happened?”

“A lot.”

“Are…” Her eyes narrowed a bit as she considered her words. “Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

“Are you and Martin okay?”

My serious face slipped as an involuntary and dreamy smile arrested my features. “Yes.”

Her eyes went wide again. “Are you and Martin officially together? Like girlfriend, boyfriend, committed exclusive relationship, I’ll go bat-shit crazy and burn all your stuff if I find you with someone else together?”

“Yes.” I sighed as I said this, and it was a girly, wistful sigh.

However, Sam’s expression was growing more anxious, pensive. “Did you…?” She licked her lips then nibbled on the bottom one, not finishing her question. Yet, the implied meaning was there. It hung over us both, the word sex in capital letters followed by a giant question mark.

I nodded, shifting my weight between my feet, unable to stand still.

“Oh my God.” Her eyes lost a bit of their focus briefly and I couldn’t tell what she was thinking. Then she blurted, “Please tell me he used a condom.”

I felt a niggling bit of guilt or regret, which I pushed away immediately, instead deciding to roll my eyes. “Sam…”

“Kaitlyn, don’t you Sam me. Please tell me you were safe.”

“I’m on birth control,” I whispered. I didn’t know why I was whispering.

“So? Birth control doesn’t stop genital warts.”

“Sam…” Apparently my only defense against her commonsense facts was to roll my eyes.

“Kaitlyn, you are not stupid. So why are you acting stupid about this?”

“I trust him,” I said without thinking, and shrugged.

Sam’s eyes widened then closed, her chin dropped to her chest; I heard her exhale then say to the floor. “You think you love him.”

I didn’t respond. At my silence she lifted just her eyes. She looked sober, concerned, bracing.

I shrugged because, though I could guess the source and reasoning behind her anxiety on my behalf, I didn’t share her worry. My feet were too far off the ground. I was basking in post-boat bliss. Martin loved me. I loved him. And the genital wart-covered world could go hide itself in a chemistry lab cabinet for all I cared.

“I do. I love him. I’m in love with him.”

“Oh.” She tried to smile, but it looked more like a grimace. “Well, that’s…great.”

I laughed at her effort to be supportive. “I know what you’re going to say—”

Really, there were so many warnings she might give, concerns she might voice given the situation and how little she knew about Martin.

But instead she held up her hands to keep me from continuing. “I’m not going to say anything. Other than I hope you know that I will always be here for you should you ever need anything. Anything at all. Anything. And that includes a visit to the gynecologist or the name of a hit man.”

I smiled at my friend because there was no doubt in my mind that she did love me. “You’re a good friend.”

She returned my smile, but worry still rimmed her eyes as she spoke, “You too, Kaitlyn… And you deserve the best, especially from Martin Sandeke.”

Sam crossed the room and pulled me into a hug, and added in a whisper, “Never accept less than his best.”