His eyes drop to his drink, and he nods. “You’re right, you do.”

We fall silent as we both get lost in our own thoughts.

“One day you’re going to meet a woman, and you will know for certain that she is the one you want to be with.”

His haunted eyes rise to meet mine. “What if I don’t? What if I’m so fucked up that I miss all the signs?”

“Then you will live happily in bachelor land. Probably have a couple of kids to a few different women and then grow old with the children you see every second weekend.”

He frowns as if shocked by my prediction.

“I don’t want that,” he whispers.

I take his hand over the table. “I can’t help you with this, baby.”

“But we get on so well,” he whispers.

“We do.” I squeeze his hand in mine. “And I will be your friend to the very end, but I want to wait for Prince Charming.” I smile hopefully. “He’s coming for me, I know it.”

He stares at me. “How will you know? How will you know when you’ve met him?”

I already know.

“Because he won’t have to try to not sleep with anyone else . . . he will love me so much that the thought of sleeping with another would turn his stomach. Because that’s what love is. Putting another person above all else. Giving yourself over to them completely. Trusting your heart with the woman you love.”

I see the confusion rolling around in his eyes. He can’t even comprehend what I’m explaining.

“I have faith it will happen for you one day.” I sip my drink with a smile.

He exhales heavily. “I wish I shared the same optimism.”

“And for the record, for future attempts, telling a woman that you can try not to sleep around is probably the most unromantic thing I have ever heard.”

He gives me a beautiful broad smile, and I know it’s going to be okay between us. “I thought it was pretty good, actually.”

I laugh. “You idiot.”

“I can’t believe you’re knocking me back, Grumps.” He frowns. “I’m a catch, you know?”

“I know. Crazy, huh?”

“So where do we go from here?” he asks.

“We keep being friends, and you practice how to fall in love with someone.”

A trace of a frown crosses his face. “How do I do that?”

“You let your guard down.”

“I don’t—”

I cut him off. “I know. It isn’t an easy thing to do.”

He sits with his head resting on his hand, his elbow on the table. “Why did you break up with your boyfriend?”

“He tried not to sleep with someone else . . . and failed.”

His eyes hold mine.

“Broke my fucking heart in the process.”

“It wasn’t about you,” he says softly.

“I know.” I sip my drink as the memory of how hard my heart broke sinks back into my bones.

We fall silent again, and a thought comes to my mind. “Why did you come on this trip?”

He shrugs. “Lots of reasons.”

“What was the main one?”

“To try and find out who I was.”

“And what have you discovered?”

Holding the stem of his glass, he spins it where it sits on the table, his eyes focused on it. “I don’t always like who I am.”

“Like when?”

“Like now.”

My heart sinks. He knows . . . he knows what I want, and he knows he can’t give it to me.

My affection is one sided, just like I thought it was.

Ouch . . .

I pushed for a definite answer to where we stand, and I got it.

Move on.

“I’m tired.” I fake a smile. “Let’s get going.”

CHRISTOPHER

The walk back to the hostel is made in silence. Hayden’s arm is linked through mine, and we are walking along like we always do . . . except I’m not in comfortable silence like normal with her. There are a million questions running through my head at the speed of light.

You just don’t have the emotional intelligence that I’m looking for.

Everyone keeps telling me that I don’t have emotional intelligence, but why?

What is the point that I’m clearly missing?

What the fuck does an emotionally intelligent man do? Because I literally have no idea what I’m doing wrong here.

We get to the hostel, and as she goes to walk up the stairs, I pull her back and turn her toward me. “Hayden . . . wait.”

“What?”

I swallow a nervous lump in my throat. “I know I’m not the romantic kind of guy you want.”

Her eyes hold mine.

“But can you do something for me?”

“What?”

“Kiss me goodbye.”

“Chris . . .”

“Just once.”

I need to know.

“That’s all I’m asking, and then we’ll just be friends, and everything will return to normal.”

She goes to say something, and I cut her off as I kiss her softly. She tastes sweet and . . .

Delicious.

I slide my arms around her and kiss her properly this time, my tongue sliding between her parted lips. She kisses me back, and unexpected goose bumps scatter up my arms.

My cock begins to thump.

Oh . . .

Her body fits perfectly up against mine, and we kiss again. She’s measured, slow, and seductive . . . not at all what I was expecting. My eyes flutter closed.

What the fuck is this?

She jerks out of the kiss and steps back from me. Her eyes hold mine. “Goodbye, Christopher.”

She turns and bounces up the stairs and disappears into the building. I watch her, shocked, aroused, and confused.

Hmm . . . interesting.

I look down at the erection tenting my pants. “What are you fucking looking at?” I whisper angrily at him. I drag my hands through my hair in disgust. “Forget it. You can’t have her.”

I lie propped on my elbow and stare over at the seductress in her pure little pink pajamas, and under the covers she looks comfortable and relaxed.

Completely fuckable.

Hayden Whitmore.

Has there ever been a more annoying, infuriating temptation in the history of life?

I don’t think so.

It’s been a week since she casually kissed me, a week of imagining bending her over, a week of wanking in the shower until I nearly draw blood. And a very long week of following her around like a fucking puppy.

Not that she’d notice. She’s completely self-absorbed and most definitely not into me.

I think if I was on fire, she wouldn’t even notice, which is ironic because it feels like my dick actually is.

Everyone is out at the beach, and we are alone in our room.

She glances over. “How’s the book going?”

I curl my lip in disdain. I glance at the title:

EMOTIONAL INTELLIGENCE

“It’s okay, I guess.”

This book is a load of fucking baloney. The person who wrote this is not emotionally intelligent; they’re just plain fucking stupid.

“What made you buy that book?” she asks.

I fake a smile. I wonder.

She smirks knowingly and goes back to her book. “I like that you’re reading that.”

Shut. Up.

“I’m going to go out tonight,” I say to her.

“Okay.” She turns the page in her book, her eyes glued to the text.

“You going to come?” I ask.

“Hmm.” She scrunches up her nose. “Probably not.”