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CHAPTER TEN

Introverts are good at reading the body language of those around them.

As I mentioned before, I fake it well—giving off the impression that I’m the queen of the party when, in truth, I punctuate people’s comments with pre-programmed phrases just so I don’t seem weird.

"Wow, that’s amazing!"

"That’s really great!"

"I would’ve never guessed . . .”

All of them come with a smile or a surprised expression, but the truth is, I wouldn’t suffer in the slightest if I could keep my mouth shut for the rest of my life.

It’s only with Mom and Badger that I'm completely natural.

Not liking to talk or interact, however, doesn’t mean I don’t know how to behave in public—or that I can’t read people’s reactions.

That said, it takes me half a second to realize I just made a mistake the size of Texas. The man in front of me is definitely not a buyer. He looks about as interested in fishing as I am in a game of chess.

I recover quickly, talking as if I haven’t just thrown half a dozen absurdities at him. "I'm sorry. How can I help you, sir?"

" Help me?"

God, looks like I found someone who talks even less than I do.

I sigh, debating whether to tell the truth—that I mistook him for a potential buyer for our boat—or pretend I thought he was a lost tourist and was just being nice, but I decide quickly that lying is too much work, and I don’t feel like wasting my life energy on that.

"I thought you were the buyer for my mother’s boat."

The oceans in his eyes sweep over me from head to toe, and I feel a wave of heat spreading beneath my skin—like someone struck a match and lit a fire in my flesh and blood.

Just because I’m not sociable and live in a small town doesn’t mean I don’t know the rules of civilized behavior. I’m positive that the way this beautiful stranger is looking at me isn’t exactly polite, but instead of being offended, my heart pounds wildly.

I’ve been on the receiving end of male stares before—and his definitely means he sees something he likes.

Realizing that gives me the same feeling I had the first time I tried alcohol—like I’m a few feet off the ground, floating. It doesn’t bother me the way it usually does.

But just as quickly as it started, it ends.

That perfect face shifts into a mask of indifference. "You shouldn’t be out here alone at this hour," he growls.

"What?"

"You heard me."

I put both hands on my hips, secretly thankful that his stunning looks don’t match his personality. It’ll be easier not to be attracted to an arrogant jerk. "You came over here because you thought I was in danger?"

"I’d have done the same for any other teenage girl alone out here," he says, and I’m almost sure he’s calling me that on purpose, because even though I’m not quite twenty-three, I definitely don’t look like a kid.

That’s it. I’ve had enough of this conversation. I haven’t even had breakfast yet, and I’m not about to argue with a cocky stranger at the crack of dawn, no matter how hot he is.

"I’m not a teenager. But either way, thank you for your concern. I’m not in any danger. I was practically born and raised here. I’m waiting on a buyer for my mom’s boat," I repeat, giving him my fake smile number four, the one I reserve for the arrogant customers at the restaurant.

" Practically ?" he asks, catching me off-guard.

I figured from his posture that he’d take the hint and walk away, not latch onto a slip-up. "Yes."

"Why?"

Oh, I understand the question, of course.

But how do I tell a complete stranger that I was born in North Carolina but when my mother gave me up for adoption, she wanted to put some distance between us out of fear she might take me back—and in her depression, hurt me somehow?

And that she decided to make Cape Cod her home once she saved up enough money to move north, hoping to at least be near New York, the state where she thought I’d ended up?

Yeah, no. Not telling this man any of that.

I decide to play dumb. "Why what?"

"Why ‘ practically ?’ Where were you born?"

"East coast," I answer vaguely. "Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .”

"Still, you shouldn’t be out here alone this early."

I let out an exasperated breath. "And why not, exactly?"

"You’re beautiful and very young. Even small towns have crime."

And I just stay there, like an idiot, stuck on the part where he said I’m beautiful.

I look away so I don’t come off like some starstruck country girl. "Thank you, sir . . .”

"Jasper," he says. I test the name in my mind. I’ve never met anyone with that name before. I hop down from the boat and take a few steps toward him.

Now that we’re about half a meter apart, I realize how tall he is. I’m not short—I’m five-foot-nine—but he has to be at least six-foot-three.

"I’m Alexis," I say, offering my hand—a gesture I never make. I’m not one to start friendships, but I like the way this bossy stranger makes my heart race. "I’ve never seen you around here. Did you recently buy a house in Cape Cod?"

Great. I want to slap myself. Could I be more cliché?

“So, Jasper, do you come here often?” Might as well say it in a sultry tone while I’m at it.

In my defense, I don’t know how to flirt. I’ve had zero training in seduction.

He doesn’t say anything. He just looks at my outstretched hand for a moment, then lets his gaze travel down my entire body again, slow, unhurried, until it reaches my face. A look like that should be illegal. I can hear my pulse in my ears.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

My heart feels like the crowd during a Super Bowl halftime show, while I wait to see what he’ll do next.

Seconds go by, and I silently beg some higher power to give me a clue as to how to start an intelligent conversation, but no one has the chance to answer because he finally says, without shaking my hand, "Take care, Alexis. Don’t become a statistic."

Jasper turns and walks away without another word, leaving me standing there, mouth open.