The street is packed with tourists in shorts and visors and, with no sidewalks, they all roam through the middle of Charlotte Street laughing and talking among themselves. When we reach the sand, I glimpse the bleachers constructed on the beach. Off in the distance, I see a stage where people are already squeezing in against the platform as sound equipment and instruments are set up for a concert. The briny smell of the ocean hits me as a breeze sweeps over us, lifting the hairs that hang loose from my ponytail and making my skin p.r.i.c.kle. The sand is warm on the surface but cool when my feet sink down. I haven't been to the beach in a couple of weeks and I always avoid the beach during big events like this.

My hand is getting sweaty. I feel an intense urge to let go of Adam's hand to wipe the sweat on my hip, but I don't. Being uncomfortable is part of being on a date, right? Like holding in your farts when you're in a new relationship. It's a necessary evil. Suddenly, I think of the first time I farted in front of Chris and I can't help but smile.

"Why are you so happy?" Adam asks as we trudge across the sand toward the bleachers.

"I'm thinking of how sweaty my hand feels right now."

He grips my hand tighter. "Too bad. I'm not letting go."

"I'll never let go, Jack," I whisper dramatically, and he shakes his head.

"You jump, I jump," he replies, and I laugh.

"You love t.i.tanic," I tease him. "You know, that first day I saw you in the cafe, I kept calling you Jack Dawson in my head."

"Do I look that old to you?"

"No, and you're much better looking than him, anyway."

"You'd better watch out, Claire," he says as we climb the steel steps up to the bleachers. "If you keep saying stuff like that I'm going to be forced to take you into the water for a swimming lesson."

"I know what that means and I would never. There are a million people out here."

We sit at the end of a bench a few rows down from the top and the steel bench is hot against the backs of my legs.

He finally lets go of my hand and leans over to whisper in my ear. "I thought you liked taking risks."

His lips linger against my ear and his breath sends a tingling sensation racing through me. I swallow hard as I shift in my seat and he finally pulls away.

"The first group hits the water in a few minutes," he says, as if I care. "So we have some time to finish our little game of questions. But this time we have to actually answer. No answering a question with a question." He grabs my hand again before he begins. "What's your favorite time of day?"

I pause for a minute to think, though I already know the answer. "That time of day when the sun hasn't come up yet, but you can already feel it coming. It's an elusive warmth, like a subtle promise whispered in your ear and you can go on with your day knowing you've been given another chance to get it right. Sometimes I get up early just so I can sit outside with a cup of tea and feel it."

I turn to Adam and his face is serious. "I know it's a total cliche, but my favorite time of day is sunset." He takes a deep breath then turns his gaze to the water. "We used to live near Carolina Beach and my dad would take me out every day after school to surf until the sun went down. It's bittersweet because the sunset always made me a little sad knowing that it was the signal for us to leave-and I never wanted to leave the water. But it also brings back some really good feelings about that time in my life, you know, before things got complicated."

There's so much I want to ask him now, but I have to pick just one question.

"Okay, why do you still work for your dad if you hate it? And don't give me the obvious answer of family obligation because you don't strike me as the kind of guy who would let that stop him from doing anything."

He leans forward, resting his elbows on the tops of his legs and I'm forced to lean forward with him since he's still gripping my hand like a life raft.

He encapsulates my hand in both of his and my hand disappears. "I guess we both have some questions we're not ready to answer."

I wait a moment before I nudge his shoulder for him to look up. "Hey, the first group just paddled out."

During the entire first round, and half the second round, Adam explains the rules of the tournament and what each surfer needs to score to move on. Every time one of them executes a difficult trick without bailing he gets so excited and cheers with the crowd. His enthusiasm is infectious and before long, I find myself cheering so loudly my throat aches by the end of the second round. I haven't had this much fun on a date since... well, I don't know if I've ever had this much fun on a date.

As we're sitting there waiting for the third round to begin, a group of guys in board shorts with beads of water and sand sparkling on their shirtless chests pa.s.s us on the way up to the next row of bleachers. A couple of them ogle me as they pa.s.s and Adam's grip tightens on my hand. I look at him and the tiny muscle in his jaw is twitching.

"Come on. Let's go down and watch some of the bands while we wait for the next round."

I allow him to pull me along down the bleachers to the sand and toward the stage before I say anything. "What was that about?"

"What?"

"That?" I say, nodding toward the bleachers behind us. "You're not upset about those guys checking me out, are you?"

He grits his teeth again as he lets out a breath through his nostrils. "I don't like.... Wait, let me rephrase that. I sometimes have a problem controlling my temper. That's part of the reason I moved here. I've learned that the only way for me to deal with it is to avoid situations that set me off."

Great. I had to find the one sweet guy in Wrightsville Beach with anger issues. I realize quite abruptly that we've both let go of each other's hands as we approach the crowd huddled around the stage where a DJ is now playing electronic dance music. Some people jump up and down to the beat while others writhe against each other. Some hold cans of soda in their hands, which, by the enthusiasm of their thrusts, are probably filled with more than carbonated water and high-fructose corn syrup.

The smell of a dozen different sunscreens, coconut, pineapple, jasmine, combined with the scent of hot, sweaty bodies grinding against each other is intoxicating. I follow Adam as he moves through the crowd, parting the swaying sea of bodies for me. He makes it as close as a few rows of bodies from the stage before he turns around, wraps his arms around my waist, and lifts me up.

I try not to giggle as I get a swooping sensation in my belly. I can feel my dress riding up my back, exposing my bikini bottoms to everyone. I wrap my arms around his neck as he leans his forehead against mine.

"Claire," he says, just loud enough so I can hear him over the music. "I'm going to kiss you."

His breath is hot against my mouth as he slowly moves in, stopping just before our lips touch and my whole body aches for this kiss. He smiles and I pull him toward me, but he turns his head at the last second and my lips brush his cheek.

"But not here," he says into my ear, and I'm furious with frustration.

"Put me down."

He plants a soft kiss on my cheekbone then laughs when I wipe it away. He finally sets me down on the sand, but he holds onto my waist so I can't turn away.

"Don't be mad," he yells over the music. "I just want it to be perfect, like you."

I roll my eyes. "Boy, you've got a rude awakening coming if you think I'm perfect."

"You're perfect," he insists as he grabs my face and forces me to look him in the eye. "Just the right amount of flaws."

Our chests heave against each other and I can't take it anymore. "I want to go home."

"So soon?"

"You didn't let me finish," I say, making no attempt to keep myself from staring at his gorgeous lips. "I want to go home... with you."

Chapter Nine.

Relentless Desire WE HALF-RUN AND HALF-WALK BACK to his apartment. The entire time I'm trying to mentally shutdown all the alarm bells going off inside my brain. This guy is trouble. He pursues me to the point that I'm begging him to go to bed with him. Plus, he's admitted to having rage issues. This is wrong, wrong, wrong.

So why does it feel so d.a.m.n right.

As soon as he closes his front door, he clasps his hand around the back of my neck, ensnaring a handful of my hair, and pulls my face toward him. His first kiss is soft as he presses his lips to the corner of my mouth. He kisses the other corner and a sigh builds inside my chest. His tongue parts my lips and I whimper as my body melts into him, too weak to fight it.

As if he could sense this, he scoops me up in his arms and carries me to his bedroom. He lays me down on the bed and his gaze slides over me as if I'm a meal he's preparing to devour and he can't decide where to start.

He reaches behind his back and turns on an oscillating fan without breaking eye contact with me. "It's very hot in here."

He pulls off his tank top and lies on top of me, supporting his weight on his hands as he softly kisses my forehead. "I want to make love to you," he whispers as his lips brush my temple and leave a burning trail down the side of my face before he reaches my ear. "I want to leave you dazed and confused for a week with nothing but my name on your lips."

I'm fading fast. One part of me wants him to keep going, but another voice inside me keeps screaming that this is wrong. I'm falling too fast. It's going to happen again.

I need to quiet that voice.

I clutch his hair and pull his face away from my neck. "Tell me a joke. Quick." He smiles as he leans down to kiss me and, as his tongue slides over mine, a clash of emotions threatens to rip me in half. "Please," I beg, and he groans into my mouth.

"Claire, didn't anyone ever warn you to never trust an atom?" He kisses the corner of my mouth so softly it sends a gust of longing sweeping through me. "They make everything up."

His fingers skim the side of my thigh as they travel upward, snagging the hem of my dress and exposing my skin to the cool air of the fan.

My breath hitches as his fingers toy with the edge of my bikini bottoms. "Adam, did anyone ever tell you your jokes are bad and you should feel bad?"

"Never," he whispers as he presses his lips against the swell of my breast.

His hand slides between my thighs and I gasp as he strokes me through the fabric of my bikini.

"Is this your subtle way of telling me I shouldn't trust you?" I say, eager to fill my brain with any thought other than the voice that keeps telling me to stop.

His hand slides up to my belly then beneath the waistband of my bikini bottoms. My whole body goes rigid.

"Is this okay?" he asks, looking into my eyes as his fingers come to rest on my swollen flesh.

I want to tell him it is more than okay. I desperately want him to keep going. I want to feel him inside me. I want to release all this tension we've built up on the beach and over the past week. But I keep thinking about the day my life changed one year ago and the events-and mistakes-that led to that day. And the countless lies I've told since then.

I push him off me and sit up on the bed. "I can't. I'm sorry."

I bury my face in my knees and he lets out a frustrated sigh as he sits up next to me. "Hey," he murmurs as he lifts my chin. "I'm not irritated with you, if that's what you think."

I purse my lips, unconvinced, as I lay my cheek against my knee. "You should take this opportunity to run as far away from me as you can."

He lays his palm on the side of my face and strokes my cheekbone with his thumb. "You're not getting rid of me that easily. You still owe me something." He sweeps my hair over my shoulder then lightly traces a heart on my back.

I close my eyes as he slides over to sit behind me. His legs stretch out on either side of my hips as he rubs my shoulders. I keep my eyes tightly shut as I try to ignore the tingling between my legs when his hand touches my b.u.t.t as he adjusts his crotch.

"I'm... I'm thirsty. It's really hot in here."

He kisses the back of my neck before he scoots off the bed. "I'll get you some water."

As he walks out of the bedroom, Jo pops into my head. I wouldn't have the day off today if it weren't for her willing to switch shifts with me. I should go thank her again. No, I'm just looking for an excuse to get out of this apartment.

I tap my foot on the mattress as I wait impatiently, but after ten minutes I begin to worry. Then the smell of smoke makes my nose perk up and my body tense.

I scramble off the bed and slip on my flip-flops before I head out to the kitchen. Adam is standing in the kitchen blowing smoke out through the window above the sink. He holds a plastic blue bong in his right hand and a lighter in his left. I walk into the kitchen and he smiles at me.

"Sorry, I should have brought the water first. It's right there." He nods toward a tall gla.s.s of ice water on the counter, but I don't pick it up.

He's a pothead. That's what he smokes every night.

He sets the bong and the lighter down on the counter and I glimpse a tattoo on the left side of his chest: Ride it out. The letters are written in dripping block text beneath a tattoo of a compa.s.s. The inner part of the compa.s.s is filled with brilliant blue waves. The water is his compa.s.s. I want to touch it, but I'm too peeved by the fact that he's a pothead.

"I should go," I say as I turn toward the door and, as expected, he grabs my hand.

"Hey, are you p.i.s.sed that I didn't bring your water or that I'm smoking?"

"Neither," I say, without looking at him.

He reaches up and turns my face toward him. Even through the haze of smoke in the kitchen, he still looks beautiful.

"Don't go."

I close my eyes to block out the sight of his perfect lips and the slight pinkness in the whites of his eyes.

"I'm sorry, this is going to sound totally lame, but I can't date a pothead. My mom died of a drug overdose. And I know weed is nothing like heroin, but I promised myself a long time ago that I would never get involved with someone who does drugs. I'm sorry."

I pull his hand off my face and turn to leave once more. He clambers around me and blocks the front door. His smile is gone and I can only imagine how I must be killing his high.

"I only smoke after work and sometimes on the weekend. It's not a debilitating addiction, but I can understand why you might feel hesitant. What if I promise never to smoke around you?"

The smell of the smoke on his breath is starting to turn me off and I instantly shake my head.

"All right, come with me," he says, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the bedroom. "Just go sit in there and I'll be right back."

I sigh as I trudge back into the bedroom and sit on the edge of the bed. The faucet turns on in the bathroom and I imagine he's probably in there brushing his teeth and gargling some minty mouthwash. He finally comes back and I can smell the mouthwash as he sits next to me without saying anything.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

He finally smiles and grabs my hand. "You wanted to know why I left Wilmington to come here." He takes a deep breath and stretches his neck before he continues. "I almost killed someone three months ago."

I want to pull my hand out of his, but now I'm afraid of what he'll do. "What do you mean by almost?"

"I told you I have-had problems controlling my temper. It started after I quit competing two years ago. Instead of getting depressed, I got angry."

He squeezes my hand tighter. Between this and the look Jo gave me when she offered to take my shift, I'm beginning to understand that we all must be walking around with secrets that eat away at us, driving us to do foolish things in the name of keeping those secrets buried.

"I caught my ex making out with some guy outside her apartment," he continues. "I went there to surprise her when she thought I was in cla.s.s and I saw her pinned against her front door with this guy's hand in her crotch. I f.u.c.king flipped. I just kept pummeling the s.h.i.t out of him. I couldn't stop. I took court-ordered anger management cla.s.ses then I moved here. Some crazy idea that being closer to the water would help." He's squeezing my hand too hard now and I wriggle my fingers to loosen his grip. He brings my knuckles to his lips and kisses me as he looks up. "I can't even imagine what it must have been like to lose your mom that way."

Something about the way his eyebrows crinkle together makes me lose it. "I didn't know she was dead. Well, I didn't want to accept it. I convinced myself that she was just sleeping... for more than thirty hours. The neighbor, who my mother had led me to believe was my grandmother, came by to drop off some food and found my mom. The cops found me hiding in the nook between the refrigerator and the wall. That was where my mom always told me to hide whenever her dealer came over or when she left me home alone so she could score a fix. That was where I felt safe."

He wraps his arm around my shoulder and I slump over, burying my face in my hands. I wish I could tell him everything that happened since that day; everything up until the day I moved into this apartment. Maybe he would understand. No, he couldn't. It's been months and even I don't understand.

"Every night, when I go to sleep, there's one memory I hold onto and relive in my mind-every single night." I look up and into his face, willing myself not to cry. "The week before she died, she invited a man over-not to have s.e.x or anything; he was just a friend she invited over once in a while. They were sitting on the sofa talking while I was watching cartoons, pretending not to listen to their conversation, and the man said something I'll never forget. He said, Life is only as hard as you make it, Kell. You have to let go of the past or keep carrying it on your back like a f.u.c.king pile of bricks.'" I take a deep breath as I remember how seven-year-old me had smiled when he cursed. "Redneck wisdom, but I took it to heart."