She ought to get credit for that, Lucy thought, stealing a glance at Archie’s profile as they headed down the gangway. The late afternoon sun glinted off the inky curls falling down over his brow, making him look particularly roguish. He didn’t glance back, let alone admire her brave stoicism. In fact, he wasn’t paying her any attention at all. Nor had he been for the past half hour. She gnawed at her lip, worried that her sea-unworthiness had proved too unpalatable for Archie. He’d stopped noticing her, which was most confusing. Especially since Lucy could have sworn that on the ferry he’d been about to kiss her. She’d been kissed a few times and she’d avoided being kissed plenty of times. She was well versed in reading the signs that a fellow was about to kiss a girl and Archie had definitely been displaying them all. His breath had laced with hers, warm and sweet, his irises had gone all jetty and focused, like she was all that he was seeing or wanted to see, and his body seemed to hum with purpose . . .
