“Hello Daisy,” Mr. Hansen says as he unfolds his napkin. “You look lovely tonight.”

  He’s just being polite, but I shoot Owen a winning grin anyway. “Thank you, Mr. Hansen. Looking sharp yourself.”

  Mr. Hansen smiles, but there’s something distinctly insincere about it. “Please, call me John.”

  I force another grin, but I don’t mean it the way I did before. I hate that look in his eye, like he knows how much bigger he is than everyone around him.

  Not that the man is large—in fact, I would say he’s of average size—but that ego is fucking massive.

  My fingers go to tapping beneath the table. Told you he’d like it.

  I glance at Owen, but his eyes are locked on his phone, clearly frowning. He’s not even texting me back.

  I add, It’s a joke, O. Did I rile you up so easily?

  He looks up quickly, eyes widening a little, like he’s surprised by something. Then he sends, It’ll take more than that to rile me up.

  I glance around as my parents’ seat themselves beside me, lowering my phone as I text, Getting cold feet?

  The corner of his mouth turns up as he watches me from behind his cellphone, lids slightly lowered.

  My phone buzzes. More like blue balls.

  I almost balk at him, but my mouth is too busy grinning. I type back, Been a while, then?

  His smile dips. Long enough.

  I’m not sure what that means, but I’m saved from having to respond when the CEO of FYM, William Hastings, stands at the head of the table.

  Mr. Hastings clears his throat before droning on and on about how fortunate the business is, even though the wage they pay their interns is criminal. He goes on to thank his associates, firstly starting with the investors, such as my father. He then goes on to note how lucky the families of FYM are, like being invited to this pompous retreat is the equivalent of finding a golden ticket.

  At one point, Owen kicks my shin beneath the table. I shoot him a glare, but he just makes an exaggeratedly happy face, reminding me to smile.

  I school my features for the rest of Mr. Hastings’ speech, all the way through his boisterous moment of gratitude for his husband, Angel. Angel Hastings fans himself, as if his eyes are wet with tears.

  The whole thing is so fucking dramatic.

  Finally, the Hastings’ take their seats at the head of the table, and a dozen servers file out onto the beachfront with trays. They set large bowls and platters along the middle of the table, a silver serving utensil for each one. The party wastes no time falling back into conversation as they shovel all manner of seafood onto their plates.

  It isn’t until my cheeks are filled with pan-seared salmon that Mrs. Hansen chooses to acknowledge me.

  “So Daisy,” she says, holding her white wine over her monkfish with an air of arrogance, “have you decided on a school?”

  I swallow my mouthful and sip my water before responding, “Still torn.”

  Mrs. Hansen nods, as if she understands. As if she’s responsible for anything in her own life.

  “The clock is ticking,” my mother adds. It’s the first time she’s spoken to me in days.

  I grit my teeth and do my best to avoid Owen’s gaze. A throb is forming in my head, probably from all the day-drinking. “I know.”

  Sarah Fell speaks over the rim of her vodka tonic, “Better to decide sooner than later.”

  I fist my hand in my lap and repeat, “I know.”

  Mrs. Hansen waves a hand over the table. “Oh go easy on her, Sarah.” I’m surprised that she’s come to my defense, but far less surprised when she continues, “At least she’s applied to colleges.”

  I glance up just in time to catch Owen flinch. It’s subtle—like, very subtle—but I notice.

  My fingers resume tapping. Do it.

  Owen glances into his lap, but I can clearly see the grin threatening to kill his cool and collected expression.

  Just as Mrs. Hansen’s mouth is shaping more unfavorable words, Owen cuts in.

  “Daisy,” he says, and the chill that crawls down my arms isn’t a farce. I like the way my name sounds on his mouth, the way he’s looking at me now, like I’m the snack he’s been looking forward to all day.

  Not enough to get all weak in the knees, but still.

  I keep my response coy. “Owen.”

  His lopsided smirk is so sweet, a part of me wonders why he’s never genuinely like this. I’m no sap, but I know that the guy hasn’t been able to maintain a relationship for longer than a few weeks. I wonder if he’d have better luck this way.

  Though it would probably suck to pretend all the time.

  The question practically flies from his mouth. “Can I take you out tomorrow?”

  I feign surprise as each of our parents turns to listen. “Out?” I repeat.

  He nods, grinning. “I thought we could go zip-lining.”

  My false grin falls. “Zip-lining?” This was not part of the plan.

  But his grin never falters. In fact, his stupid cheeks fill up with air, like he’s holding in his laughter.

  Stammering beneath our parents horrified, waiting gazes, I falsify my expression into one of demure embarrassment. “I—yes,” I sputter the words, wide-eyed for the boy in front of me. “Yes, I’d love to.”

  ҉

  Daisy

  Did you see their faces?

  I roll my eyes as I type back. They looked like they were witnessing a murder.

  A moment passes before his response comes in. You know we actually have to go, right?

  Zip-lining. This goddamn island just had to have a zip-line.

  I groan to myself, absolutely loathing the thought of hanging from a thread over Catalina’s coppice of trees and fauna. I know.

  Don’t act all excited for my benefit.

  This is all for your benefit, O.

  Don’t I know it.

  I hate myself for smiling, but I do.

  Part Three

  Owen

  “That’s what you’re wearing?”

  Daisy’s scowl would be a lot more intimidating if she weren’t an entire foot shorter than me. She pinches the stretchy fabric of her leggings and says, “Obviously.”

  But it’s not her leggings that I’m hyper-focused on. No, it’s her shirt. Or rather, her lack-of a shirt. Daisy’s wearing this thing that is no more modest than a bikini top. Made entirely of lace and fastened by ribbons, it exposes her entire midsection—the lines of her tight abdomen, the curves of her waist, and a generous amount of cleavage.

  It’s so fucking sexy—too sexy for an outdoor activity like this. She looks like she’s ready to be carried off to the nearest bed.

  I’m suddenly calculating how long it would take to get back to my own bed.

  “What?” she demands, and I realize I’m staring. But instead of covering herself, she plants a hand on her bare hip and looks at me pointedly.

  “Sorry,” I laugh, noticing the male gazes passing us by. She doesn’t seem to notice the attention. “It’s just, you look more like you’re about to go clubbing.”

  “It’s for tonight,” she replies dryly.

  My brows scrunch. “What’s tonight?”

  She gestures at the decorations on the street around us. “It’s a street dance.”

  I glance up, noting the lights strung up over the road, the decorated storefronts, tables being positioned along the street. “Huh.”

  Daisy nods and starts walking in the direction of the shuttle stop. “I guess Angel Hastings got in touch with the mayor or whatever.”

  Safe to assume Daisy got that information from her dad, considering she has no other friends on this retreat. I did at one point, but when Daisy started coming around, I stopped asking those guys to hang out. And they couldn’t blame me—she was the girl they all talked about. I was just the first guy with the balls to approach her.

  “So…” she says slowly as we stop at the shuttle pick-up, “how did it go?”

  I shift beside her, but I’m grinning ear-to-ear. “Perfectly.”

  Her chuckle is a relief. “What did they say?”

  My grin melts, because honestly, I don’t have the heart to tell her the truth. Mrs. Fell had, apparently, told my mom a great deal about Daisy’s past “indiscretions”. When we got home last night, my mom was so harsh, so surprisingly judgmental, that at a certain point, I had to turn and walk away from her.

  You could do so much better, she’d said. You deserve better than a spoiled floozy.

  “My mom thinks I should be spending my time studying,” I lie, unwilling to repeat the harsh things my mother said. “She thinks it’s a waste of time to date the ‘daughter of the enemy’, when I should be focused on my future.”

  Daisy nods beside me, but she’s clearly working things over in her head. “And your dad?”

  I clench my fists beside me. Congrats, he’d said, but don’t go getting attached to tramps.

  I lie again. “He just ignored me.”

  “Hmm.”

  I can tell she doesn’t really believe me, but I let her jump to her own conclusions as the shuttle pulls up before us.

  The ride out of Avalon is a bumpy one, but I’m loving it. Every time the shuttle rocks one way, Daisy is forced against me, and when it rocks the other way, I’m forced against her. Somewhere along the ride, I lay my arm across the seat behind her head, glad I remembered to put on deodorant that morning. She fits perfectly beneath my arm, and the next time she’s jerked against my side, her hand grabs my thigh for balance, her fingertips gripping above my knee.

  I chuckle over her head, inhaling the scent of her shampoo. “Careful with that hand, wildflower.”

  She rips her hand away, wiping it off on her leggings, as if it were dirty. “You’re nasty, Owen.”

  I keep my voice too low for the driver to hear when I say, “You have no idea.”

  She scoffs loudly, but she won’t look at me, and I can see the blush in her cheeks. She likes this, I can tell. And I’m gonna fucking enjoy it.

  ҉

  Daisy

  Owen is off his rocker today.

  We’ve been subtly flirty ever since we first met, maintaining our innocent quips through every FYM event, but never has he been so forward with me. Maybe he’s got a big head now that we’re pretending to date.

  But as we climb the stairs to the zip-line platform, it feels a lot less like pretend, and a lot more like, holy shit, I’m about to fly down a fucking mountain for this guy.

  I grit my teeth as we reach the top, refusing to look down.

  “Scared?” Owen’s voice is a breath against my neck as he steps up behind me.

  “No,” I bite back, though I’m lying through my teeth. I’ve never been particularly comfortable with heights.

  The instructor greets us with sun-kissed cheeks and a broad smile. “Have we done this before?” she asks.

  Just as I say “No”, Owen says “Yeah”.

  I face him with a sneer, “You have?”

  He smiles down at me, but it isn’t that plastered smile he was feeding me over dinner last night. No, this seductive flash of teeth is for my benefit, and no one else’s.

  “Every year,” he replies coolly.

  “Great!” says the instructor, as if Owen just made her job easier somehow. “If you’d like to sign this form, the pair of you can go down together.”

  Owen grins, but my stomach is up in my throat. “What do you mean?”

  “So long as one of you has experience with the emergency break,” the instructor continues, grabbing a piece of paper from her fanny-pack, “you can ride together.”

  “Is—is that safe?” I hate that I sound so afraid, but honestly, I don’t know if I trust Owen. Sure, I trust him with the little things, like meeting me when he says he will, or keeping my secrets.

  I don’t know if I trust the guy enough to save my life.

  “I don’t know if I’m comfortable with that,” I admit before the instructor can click her pen.

  Owen cuts in, “Could we have a second?”

  Her expression flickers between me and Owen. “Of course!” Then she walks to the corner of the platform, which is still clearly within earshot.

  I lower my voice. “How many times have you done this?”

  “Here? Seven,” he answers instantly, eyes lowered to me. His hands are in his short pockets lazily, like he’s in line at the gas station. “Eight, if you count the training class I took.”

  I cross my arms. “Training class?”

  He nods confidently. “I worked on a zip-line in Oregon two years ago. Training was required.”

  “Oregon?” I echo. “Why the hell were you in Oregon?”

  He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. Don’t you trust me?”

  Aggressively, I whisper, “With my life?”

  He laughs, the sound coming from deep in his gut, like it’s the funniest thing he’s heard all day.

  “I’m not joking, O.”

  His laughs settle, but that stupid fucking grin remains. “Daisy, I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  My heart is racing, but I know I’ll never live it down if I chicken out. “Fine,” I grit out, “but if you drop me, I will haunt your ass for the rest of your life.”

  He chuckles and waves the instructor over.

  After we sign the proper forms, the instructor straps up my legs and waist, hooking me to the zip-line above us. I refuse to look down as I snap the helmet straps, but still, my heart is racing in my chest. Don’t be afraid. Don’t be afraid. Don’t be—

  Suddenly, Owen’s chest is pressed tightly to my back as he slips into the straps behind me. The zip-line above us moves with him, which absolutely terrifies me, but it’s hard to focus on my impending death with my ass tucked into the curve of Owen’s body. He shifts several times behind me before going loose, sitting comfortably into the stirrup.

  He wraps an arm around my waist and pulls my back flush against his chest, the flimsy material of his clothes leaving little to the imagination. His torso is rock hard, which isn’t surprising—I’ve seen him shirtless a dozen times before—but this is entirely different. His shorts are paper-thin, which must be lovely for the heat, but I can clearly feel the shape of him against my ass.

  I wiggle against him, trying not to look down. I whisper, “Why the fuck are you hard?”

  “Adrenaline,” he replies easily, like he’s not the least bit embarrassed.

  Honestly, I don’t know that he should be.

  He presses his helmet to mine, breathing down my neck as he asks, “Is my wildflower afraid?”

  Goosebumps crawl down my arms, my breath quickens, my heart thumps. I take a shaky breath and nod, eyes fixed on the zip-line just over our heads.

  His arm tightens around my waist as we reach the edge of the platform. My legs are dangling now, nothing attaching us to the platform but the heels of Owen’s shoes.

  That’s when I look down.

  We are impossibly high. The treetops point in our direction, like the earth’s many fingers, laughing at my fear.

  “Owen,” I say shakily, unable to look up, unable to tear my gaze from the shadows that collect beneath those trees. I wonder how many times the line has snapped, how many times the straps have failed, how many people have fallen to their death. If I were on the ground down there, would I find corpses? Bones? Remnants of—

  “Daisy.” He breathes my name, tickling my shoulder. A chill courses through me, and my eyes flutter closed as he wraps another arm around my waist.

  I’m pressed so tightly against him, I can hardly breathe. “Remember what I said.”

  His chuckle is dark and amused. “About the haunting?”

  I nod again, lids still lowered.

  His lips graze my shoulder as he says, “I think I could get used to your company.”

  Owen eases us off the platform, but that doesn’t keep my stomach from dropping.

  My eyes fly open as we plummet down. I’m almost blind with fear now, barely aware of what’s happening. The sensation that I’m falling asleep starts to creep up on me, numbing the back of my neck, ringing in my ears—

  “Daisy!”

  Owen’s raised voice brings me back right away. My eyes are wide now as I look around, and I realize, this isn’t plummeting—this is gliding. Coasting along the wind, the treetops only a few feet below my sandals. I’m seated in Owen’s lap, his body cradling mine like a glove, but all I can do is take in the view.

  Slowly, my breaths even. My heart rate slows. I can see clearly. The island is beautiful, the view like nothing I’ve ever seen before.

  “Wow.”

  He lets out a breath against my neck, and I realize, he hadn’t been shouting over the wind. There was no wind—the rush in my ears was from my racing heart.

  “I thought you passed out,” he admits, his voice slightly ragged. His arms are still hugged tightly around my middle, and I realize my fingernails are probably leaving harsh marks on his arm.

  “Sorry,” I say, flattening my hands over the small red lines.

  He laughs. “Don’t be.”

  And then we coast, all the way down to the next platform. And it’s over.

  When he detaches from me, I almost miss the heat of him.

  Almost.

  “Okay,” he breathes, stepping out of the straps behind me. “Onto the next.”

  I look up at him, blue eyes wide with excitement. “The next?”

  He nods happily, eyes flicking towards the opposite end of the platform. I turn, and sure enough, there’s another set of stirrups awaiting us.

  I palm my helmet. “Christ, Owen. How many more?”

  “Four,” he says giddily, knocking my elbow with his. “You did good.”

  “Barely,” I mutter, heart rate already climbing again. At least we’re closer to the ground now. Maybe not much closer, but still.

  He hooks his arm around my waist as the next instructor fetches two waivers from her fanny-pack. “You were brave,” he mumbles.

  I shake my head, looking down to hide the flush in my cheeks. “I was scared.”

  He hooks a finger beneath my chin and turns my gaze up to his. “But you did it anyway.” His thumb trails over my chin. “That’s bravery.”