"I take it back," he mutters, his expression dark. "You're not a nice person."

I laugh, victorious, and turn away. "Put some clothes on, playboy."

Remarkably, he doesn't say anything as I slip into the nearby bathroom. I make sure to lock the door behind me as I reach for the zipper of my skirt and prepare to pull the sailor suit on over my underwear.

Somehow, I have a feeling I'll be safer inside a rubber rain jacket and boots than in my flimsy blazer and bare feet.

As I step into the ridiculously large pants, tightening the elastic suspenders as much as possible, I don't let myself think about why I've agreed to spend the day with this man I barely know. I don't let myself dwell on the lingering attraction in my bloodstream. And I don't let myself answer my phone, which is buzzing for the third time in an hour, because I know Luca will just try to talk me out of going.

For once, I'm not going to think; I'm going to live.

For one, single afternoon, I'm going to leap before I look.

For a fleeting, fragmented instant of my regimented life... I'm going to be free.

I'm flying.

Head thrown back, arms outstretched, torso leaning into the wind.

The boat slices through the waves like a knife through butter, living up to her name - a swan. Majestic, graceful, powerful.

Parker's at the wheel at the back of the boat. Or, at the stern, as he calls it. I'm as far from him as I can get, pressed up at the front - sorry, the bow - like Jack in Titanic.

"I'm king of the world!" I yell into the wind, the words snatched away as soon as they pass my lips. Mist from a wave sprays up and coats my face, frigid and salty. That doesn't stop me from grinning like an idiot. I've never felt anything like this before - this rush of pure adrenaline. Even when I finish a particularly difficult hack or a tricky piece of code... it can't compare to this.

When Parker first pulled out of the harbor, switched off the motor, and put up the sails, I was nervous. But as soon as we were out of the main channel, flanked by open water and an outcropping of rocky islands, passing hundred year-old lighthouses and flocks of white shorebirds... as soon as I felt the wind on my face and the rush of speed in my veins...

The fear disappeared entirely.

I glance back and, craning my neck, can just make out the grin on his face.

It's obvious he loves this. Everything about it.

The speed, the salt, the icy water.

And I kind of love that he's sharing it with me.

I replay his words back on the docks, when he asked what I do for fun, and realize he was right. I don't have any hobbies. Not real ones, anyway. I don't do anything just for fun - just for me.

It's a pathetic state of affairs that someone like you doesn't have a single moment of her day reserved for pure, unadulterated joy.

He's right. About all of it.

Not that I'll ever admit that to his face. The man is arrogant enough already.

After a while, I make my way back to the cockpit where he's standing, two large hands wrapped around the wheel and a grin on his face.

"Admit it," he yells when I'm within earshot. I can barely hear him over the roar of the wind. "This is pretty fucking great."

I can't help smiling as I scream back at him. "It's okay!"

His eyes narrow. "Just okay?"

I shrug playfully. "I thought it'd be faster!"

He takes my words as a challenge. With one hand on the wheel, he turns the boat so the wind blasts straight across our side, filling the sails to capacity. The boat responds instantly - picking up speed in a burst, heeling over until I think for sure we'll flip and sink to the bottom of the Atlantic.

A squeak of surprise flies from my mouth and I grip the rail to keep upright.

"Hold on, darling," Parker calls, eyes flashing as we fly over the waves like a rocket. "I'm about to take you for the ride of your life."

It's dark by the time we pull back into the harbor - well past sunset. Parker docks the boat with expert precision under the low lights of the marina, and I do my best to help with coiling lines and tying us off to the slip, even though I have no idea what the hell I'm doing. He doesn't mock my efforts - he just smiles and shows me how to make a proper figure-eight knot around a cleat.

We don't say much of anything as we make our way down into the cabin, but I can't wipe the dopey grin off my face. I haven't had such a fun afternoon in... god, I can't even remember. Even after I've collapsed, legs aching, onto the plush white couch, internally I'm still riding the waves of adrenaline that crash through my system.

Parker flips on a light and flops down on the other side of the couch, leaving a few inches between our bodies. I feel the weight of his gaze on my face and turn to narrow my eyes at him.

"What are you looking at?"

"You," he says simply, leaning his head back against the cushion. His blond hair sticks up in several directions, even messier than usual due to the salt and the wind. I'm sure mine is equally crazy; not even a bottle of industrial strength hairspray can save me at this point, let alone my flimsy elastic.

"Well, stop it," I say softly. "It's creepy."

"Don't care." He shakes his head. "I like that look on your face. I've never seen it before."

I raise my eyebrows. "What look?"

"Happy. Relaxed. Satisfied." He pauses and his eyes go lazy with heat. "Makes me wonder what other faces I could get you to make."

I elbow him sharply in the side. "Don't be gross."

"Oh, relax. It was just a joke." He laughs and rubs the spot I struck. "Mostly."

I roll my eyes. "We had such a fun afternoon. Do you have to ruin it?"

"So you admit it was fun?"

"Did I say fun? I meant dysfunctional."

"Come on." His tone is teasing. "Admit it."

"Fine," I say grudgingly. "You were right. It didn't completely suck."

"I'm sorry, could you repeat that?" He cups one hand around his ear. "I'd like to make sure it's on the record."

"You were right," I grumble.

"Once more?"

"Don't push it."

Grinning, he reaches up to unzip his heavy jacket, revealing a thin white t-shirt underneath. Discarding the coat and sliding his suspenders off so they hang around his thighs, he stands and looks down at me. I try - and fail - not to drool at the sight of the red pants riding low on his hipbones.

Hey - I never said I was perfect.

"I'm grabbing a beer. You want one?" he asks, crossing over to the fridge. "Sorry, I don't have any girly shit here."

My nose wrinkles. "Girly shit?"

"Cosmos, martinis... Wait, a cosmo is a martini, right? But not all martinis are cosmos... kind of like all squares are rectangles but not all rectangles are squares?" He shakes his head. "Fuck, I don't know."

I snort. "Does your brain hurt from that analysis?"

"Yes, wise-ass, it does." He narrows his eyes at me. "Now tell me what you want to drink."

"Still waiting for you to tell me what you have."

"Ah. Right." An adorable hint of red creeps up his collar. He turns away quickly so I won't see the blush, pulling open the fridge to look inside. "I have... beer. Beer. And, last but not least... more beer."

"Such variety. How ever will I choose?"

He grabs two Harpoon IPAs, pops off their caps, and crosses back to hand one to me. The glass is cool against my fingers as they close around the neck. I feel Parker watching as I take a long draw from the mouth of the bottle.

"You're staring again," I point out as soon as I've swallowed.

He sips his beer and flops down next to me - a little closer, this time. Our arms brush every time I raise the bottle to my lips.

I don't move away; neither does he. We just sit there for a while, sipping our beers, and I'm shocked to find I'm totally comfortable in a way I rarely manage around most strangers.

It's not easy for me to let my walls down. I absolutely hate when people demand intimacy they haven't earned. But Parker doesn't demand anything. He doesn't ask invasive questions, or pester me. In fact, since the moment we met, he's just let me be... me.

"How are your legs?" he asks, a knowing look on his face.

My thighs press together of their own accord and my features twist into a grimace. Truthfully, they're killing me. Just staying vertical while we were out there on the water was a tougher workout than any of my morning jogs along the Charles.

Who knew sailing was such a contact sport?

"I have a feeling I'll be sore tomorrow," I murmur. Glancing at him from the corner of my eye, I see his lips are pressed together to contain a laugh.

"Don't make the joke, playboy."

He chuckles. "It was too easy, anyway."

I settle back against the cushions, trying to get comfortable despite the rain jacket still engulfing me from head to toe. The stiff waterproof material is warm and durable as all hell, but it's not exactly lounge-wear.

"Here." Parker grabs the large black sweater draped over a nearby chair and shoves it in my direction. "This will be more comfortable."

I stare at the sweater, then let my eyes drag up his tanned forearm all the way to his face. The soft glow of the overhead light leaves his features in shadow, but I can still make out the plushness of his lips, the strong slope of his jawline, the dark slash of his brows. His eyes are warm gold, like melted honey, and there's an expression on his face that makes my heart squeeze inside my chest.

Tenderness.

No one's ever looked at me quite like that, before. I've never gotten close enough to give them a chance.

"Thanks," I murmur, tearing my eyes from his as my fingers close around the fabric. "Now, turn around so I can change."

He does, without a word.

In silence, I unzip the bulky jacket as fast as possible and slide the sweater over my head. It drapes well past mid-thigh, covering practically everything, so I shimmy out of the rain pants as well. Tugging at the hem to make sure none of my girly bits are exposed, I plant my hands on my hips and take a breath.

"All good," I say. "You can look, now."

When he turns back to face me, his eyes drop straight to my bare legs and hold there. In the space of a single heartbeat, I watch his jaw clench, see his eyes turn smoldering, recognize the way his posture changes from casual to carnal. I'm suddenly extremely aware that despite all his jokes and lighthearted comments... he's very much a man.

An attractive, straight-up appetizing man, who's looking at me with such heat, there's no logical reason I haven't melted into a pool of hormones at his feet.

His gaze flashes up to lock on mine. I see his intent a split second before it turns to action.

"Don't," I whisper.

He takes a step toward me anyway.

"We shouldn't," I say, not moving.

He prowls closer.

"No good can come of this," I point out.

His hands hit my shoulders and he hauls me into his chest.