He’s right, but the idea of staying here all night in a cave with him, even if we do know each other, amps my anxiety. What was I thinking? Why here? Why now?
“If you’re worried about me hurting you, you should know I wouldn’t.” How does he read me so easily? Is that regret I hear in his tone?
I hide the grin that threatens to betray my attempt to hate him. “You kn-know that’s exactly wh-what a c-creeper would say, r-r-right?”
The amusement in his voice is evident when he replies, “I am definitely not a creeper.”
An awkward silence ensues. The worst kind of torture.
“What’s y-your n-name?” There. I said it. Now he can know for sure I’ve forgotten all about him.
He doesn’t answer right away, then, “You don’t know?”
Frustration flares. “Should I?” I peek at him through my lashes. We’re playing a childish game, but somehow it succeeds in making my cheeks burn in a nonchildish way. Ugh. Can I keep nothing to myself?
He presses his lips, clearly considering his next move. Is he going to call me out?
I stare back at him, our eye contact too easy.
“I have an idea.”
“Go for it.” My pulse speeds. What’s wrong with me? Why does he make me feel so comfortable? Make me act at ease and normal? Understood?
“We’ll guess each other’s names.”
The chatters die off one by one. “Excuse me?” My panting slows. I’m far from warm but at least the jacket, the blanket, the cave . . . all work together to ward off the cold.
“Oh, c’mon.” He unwraps some kind of protein bar thing and hands it over, then grabs another for himself. After two bites he says, “Don’t tell me you’ve never done this ice-breaker exercise before.”
I shrug. “Sorry.” I nibble at the fake-tasting chocolate. Best fake chocolate ever.
He shoves the rest of his bar into his mouth, then jumps to his feet.
I flinch.
He makes no comment about my obvious jitters, or my refusal to acknowledge the past. Instead, he sits beside me. “We’re stuck here, at least for tonight. Might as well make the most out of it, eh, Katie?”
My nose wrinkles. I bite another corner off the bar.
He laughs again. Lifts both hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. Not Katie. It was my first guess. Give a guy a break.”
I glance at the rain falling in sheets. A curtain between cave and sea. My anxiety fails to win this one. We have no choice.
We’ll stay.
He must catch the surrender in my sunken expression because he says, “Welcome to my humble abode.” His voice projects and he sweeps a hand wide as if showing off a loaded bachelor pad. “Now, rules.” He rubs his hands together. Scoots closer.
Must he insist on torturing me? I want to widen the gap between our shoulders. But his nearness adds warmth. The tension in my muscles, in my clenched fists, eases.
“We get five guesses each.” He holds up a hand, all fingers displayed. “Whoever’s guess is closest gets to give the other person a nickname.”
If he remembers me, he knows I despise nicknames. Which is precisely the reason I say, “Sounds good.”
“Let me see . . .” He taps his chin and stares up at the ceiling.
“Not so fast. You had your first guess. It’s my turn.”
“That was my practice guess.”
“If you get a practice, isn’t it only fair to give me one too?”
He shrugs. “I suppose.”
“Good.” Except I have no idea what I’m going to say. I blurt the first name that comes to mind. “Caiden.”
Not-Caiden shakes his head. “Nice try, but you’re way off. Now, for the real guesses. Five each. You look like an . . . Hmmm . . . Your hair is so long. And your eyes, what color is that exactly?”
I look down at my lap. This conversation is way too familiar. “Blue.”
“No. Not quite.” He nears me and I have nowhere to go except into the raft’s inflated side. “You’re quiet,” he says. “How about . . . Serene?”
I scrunch my face and stick out my tongue. That’s his guess? What if . . . Maybe he doesn’t remember me? I don’t know if that would be better or worse.
“Yeah. You’re right. Not you at all.” His serious words don’t match his light tone. He rubs his chin and scoots closer.
Guilt chafes. I’m wearing his coat while he has none. Could he need my warmth as much as I need his?
“Your turn.” His shoulder rolls.
His inability to sit still sends an unrecognizable sensation vibrating into my chest and up my neck and face. Why can’t I think straight? “Um . . .”
“Ennnt, wrong. My name, most fortunately, is not ‘Um.’”
I slap him on the arm and immediately regret the acquainted gesture. If I scoot away now, he’ll know he’s making me uncomfortable. If I don’t, I’ll be uncomfortable. Gah! Why is this so weird?
“Sorry, sorry,” he says. “Go on.”
I bite my lower lip, consider using his tactic to make an educated guess. “Alec,” I say, a foreign grin spreading across my face.
“Why Alec?”
I sit a little taller. “Because you’re kind of a smart Alec. Get it?”
“Ha-ha. Touché.”
That same blush from before returns. I only hope he can’t see it through the shadows.
As if reading my mind, he leans forward and retrieves the flashlight, shines it on the cave wall. It bounces off the slick stone, reflecting back into his gaze.
“Back to those eyes of yours.” He tilts his head to face me. “They actually remind me of these pearls my grandmother used to wear. You could be a Pearl.”
My gut pinches at the word grandmother. I suddenly feel too tired for games. “Not Pearl.” How long can we keep this up? I don’t even bother trying on the next one. “Zach.”
He lifts a brow. “With an h or a k?”
“Either.”
There’s that half smile again. “Nope.”
Two guesses later each, we still haven’t said the other’s name. “What if we both lose?” I ask, because I do not intend to win.
“Then we both get to give each other nicknames.” He seems excited at the notion, bouncing where he sits, his shoulder rubbing against mine.
I ignore the butterflies taking flight in my stomach, make my final guess. “Peter.” Because I’m so tired I feel far away in Neverland. In that scene when Captain Hook has kidnapped Tiger Lily and Peter swoops in to save her. Except, I saved him. So why does it feel like he’s the one with the power here?
“Not a Peter,” he says.
“‘To die will be an awfully big adventure.’” The quote slips before I can stop it.
“J. M. Barrie. Nice. You enjoy reading?”
He knows I do. “I did. Once.”
“No more of this ‘once’ business. We’re getting out of here and it’s my turn.” He faces me full-on. His features soften and his eyes search mine. “Brooke.”
Why did he have to ruin it? “No.” I morph back into the me who is more familiar. The me I became after him. “Wrong.”
He eyes me but doesn’t call me out. “I guess it’s nickname time. You first.”
This feels too intimate. Still, I say, “Drifter.”
“Good one, but a little cliché. You’re lucky I like it or I’d make you think of something else.”
“If that were the case, we might be here forever.”