Bad Girl Reputation by Elle Kennedy

“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.

Harrison leads the kids to the railing to watch the boats getting in position. As I’m left alone with Kayla, a familiar nervous sense of anticipation builds in my gut. It’s like hanging my toes over the edge of the roof with a backyard full of chanting drunks standing around the swimming pool with their cameras on me. For some people, the fear makes their stomachs weak. But I find fear is a lens. It focuses me, if I aim it right.

“I’m glad you found me,” Kayla says before I can arrange my thoughts. We stand in the shadow of a shop awning while she removes her sunglasses. “For a while, I was relieved when you left town.”

“I understand. Please know—”

“I’m sorry,” she interjects, stunning the words from my lips. “I’ve had a lot of time to think about that night, and I realize now I overreacted. That I was more angry at having to face the truth than I was with you—which was that Rusty was a bastard.”

“Kayla.” I want to tell her I was out of my mind for barging into someone’s home, drunk and hysterical. That being right didn’t make it right. She’s kinda stealing my wind here.

“No, the problems were there for a long time. He was emotionally and verbally abusive. But it took you showing up to put that reality into perspective. To make me accept that it was not normal to live the way we were.” Grief flickers in her eyes.