Page 54 of Rule 4: Never Get Stranded with a Sports Reporter

I like Cal.

I do.

And maybe I should be honest about that.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Cal

The day stretches, golden and impossibly perfect. The ocean is that neon-blue shade found in 80s music videos.

I collapse onto the sand.

“What are you doing?” Jason asks.

“Sunning myself,” I declare. “I’m in paradise.”

A shirt sails through the air and lands on my lap. “What’s this?”

“Use it to keep your head covered. I don’t want you getting sunburned.”

“Oh.” Something warms inside me. “But you need it.”

“Nope. I’ll be in the jungle,” Jason says. “Call if you need anything.”

“Sure.”

The words sound oddly domestic. Maybe that’s why his cheeks flush pink.

He stomps off, his footsteps crunching over leaves and gnarled roots.

I close my eyes, warmth sinking into my skin. And even though I shouldn’t feel content—not stranded, not with Jason—I am.

Jason isn’t as terrible as I imagined he would be.

In fact...

For the first time, I let myself remember our first meeting. It’s something I’ve tried to forget. Most people’s first kisses are wonderful, and though mine was too, the aftermath wasn’t.

The queasy feeling that always accompanies my memories hits me, and I squirm.

I thought he wanted it. I’d thought the way his eyes danced when he talked meant something. I thought the way he wouldgaze at my body for a fraction too long, his pale skin pink and delicious when he jerked his head away, meant something.

But I hadn’t asked explicitly before I kissed him.

And when his eyes had gone wide, when I’d pressed against him in an alley, so that he must have felt the outline of every brick against his thin shirt, I’d thought it had been because of attraction.

But had his eyes dilated out of pleasure? Or shock?

I try to remember, but shame gurgles through me.

Perhaps even the memory is something I’m supposed to lock away. Perhaps I’m not supposed to remember how his long limbs felt pressed against me. Perhaps I’m supposed to forget how his tongue had played with mine. Perhaps I’m supposed to forget how his arms had reached around my waist.

My mind had shouted this, this,thisas I’d kissed him. All the questions that had swirled through my mind had been answered.

Because I’d kissed girls at that point. I had.

I’d told myself I hadn’t met the right one, that my late-night searches on X-rated websites, and the way my cock would sometimes harden in the locker room, so that I’d have to rush to cover myself merely meant I was young and healthy and nothing more.