Bad Girl Reputation (Avalon Bay #2)(54)

“No, wait,” he says, laughing happily. “Here’s a good one. So one night, there are two ships caught in a storm. A blue ship, and a red ship. Tossed in the wind and rain, the ships can’t see each other. Then a rogue wave throws the vessels crashing into each other. The ships are destroyed. But when the storm clears, what does the moonlight reveal?”

I suppose I’m a glutton for punishment, because as torturously unfunny as his jokes are, I like how excited he gets to tell them. “I don’t know, what?”

“The crew was marooned.”

Wow. “You talk to your mother with that mouth?”

He just laughs again. He’s got those damn khakis on, paired with a tourist-dad button-down shirt. The kind of guy I’d have been making fun of while I sat with my friends smoking weed under the pier. Now here I am, one of the yuppie tools. It doesn’t feel as dirty as I’d imagined.

“Have you ever entered this race?” he asks me.

I nod. “A few times, actually. Alana and I placed twice.”

“That’s awesome.”

He insists we stop for lemon slushes, then carries them both because they’re melting quick and overflowing a little, and he doesn’t want any to drip on my dress. Just another reminder that he’s far too nice for someone who once stole a girl’s bike to jump it off a collapsed bridge and lost it down the river.

“I took a sailing lesson one time,” he confesses as he leads me to a decent viewing position along the railing. “Wound up hanging overboard by my ankle.”

“Were you hurt?” I ask, taking back my slush because I’m far less concerned than he is about getting sticky.

“No, just a little bruised.” He smiles behind his sunglasses, in that cheerful secrets-of-the-universe way of his that makes me feel bitter and empty. Because people this happy and content must know something the rest of us don’t. Either that, or they’re faking it. “Lucky for me, there was a resourceful twelve-year-old girl on board who managed to pull me out of the water before I got to experience keelhauling.”

It isn’t his fault, though, that he makes me feel this way. Harrison is a catch. Well, except that he’s a cop, and I’m a fortunate favor or two from being a convict. But the real issue? No matter how hard I try, I can’t muster up a sexual attraction to him. Not even a warm, fuzzy, platonic spark. A fact I’m sure isn’t lost on him, because for all his small-town charms, he isn’t a dope. I’ve seen the wistfulness that turns to disappointment in his eyes, the slight falter in his smile, at the knowledge that while we get along and have a nice time together, we’re not quite a love story. Nevertheless, until I have a reason otherwise, there’s no harm in giving this a shot and letting him grow on me. Water and sunlight work wonders on plants, so why not us?

“Sailing’s fun, but honestly, it’s more work than it’s worth,” I grumble. “All that running around, pulling, and winding for a few bursts of speed. You spend the whole time making the thing go, you don’t get to sit back and enjoy it.”

“Sure, but it’s romantic. A few ropes and sheets against the forces of nature. Harnessing the wind. Nothing between you and the sea but ingenuity and luck.” His tone is animated. “Like the very first navigators who saw the new world as it appeared over the horizon.”

“Did you get that out of a movie or something?” I tease.

Harrison offers a contrite grin. “History Channel.”

A voice over a loudspeaker announces a ten-minute warning for boats to approach the starting line. On the water, masts tilt and sway, jockeying their way into position.

“Of course,” I say, because as terrible as it is, I do appreciate his particular sense of humor. “I bet you stayed up all night watching an eight-part Ken Burns documentary on the history of nautical expedition.”

“Actually, it was a program about how Christopher Columbus was an alien.”

“Right.” I nod, smothering a laugh. “A classic.”

I’m finally starting to warm up to this date when I make the mistake of glancing over my shoulder. A familiar face meets my gaze as she leads her four kids away from the fried Oreo stand. Kayla Randall.

Shit. We’re both frozen in trepidation. The eye contact lasted too long to blink away and pretend we didn’t see each other. The moment has been acknowledged and is now begging for a resolution.

“What’s wrong?” Harrison says in concern, noticing my apparent apprehension.

“Nothing.” I hand him my lemon slush. “I see someone I need to talk to. Would you mind? I’ll just be a minute.”

“No problem.”

Drawing a breath, I walk toward Kayla, who watches me while she makes a futile attempt to shove napkins in her kids’ hands.

“Hi,” I say. A wholly inadequate greeting under the circumstances. “Can we talk for a minute?”

Kayla appears rightfully uncomfortable. “I suppose we better.” She shifts her feet. “But I’ve got the kids right now and—”

“I can watch them,” comes Harrison’s helpful voice. To Kayla’s brood he asks, “You guys want to get a closer look at the boats?”

“Ya!” they shout in unison.

God bless this guy. I swear, I’ve never met anyone so agreeable.