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“Damon, I'm serious.”

“So am I.”

I turned toward her.

Her eyes were red-rimmed, and a faint smudge of mascara darkened one cheek. She looked nothing like the polished executive who'd walked onto the deck twenty minutes earlier. She looked human. Beautifully, painfully human.

And something inside my chest shifted.

After a long moment, she whispered, “I hate this.”

“What?” I asked, whatever it was, I wanted to fix it. I wanted to absorb every negative thing in her life and protect her from it.

She shook her hands out. “Being like this.”

My chest tightened. I could say she had nothing to be ashamed of. That whatever had happened didn't make her weak. But something told me that wouldn’t comfort her.

So I went with the truth. “Yeah. It sucks.”

“You're terrible at comforting people,” she said flatly.

“That's not what my Yelp reviews say.”

“You have Yelp reviews?”

“Five stars. Excellent bedside manner. Would recommend.”

She rolled her eyes.

There she was.

My girl.

Except she wasn't my girl.

Not even close.

And for the first time, that thought didn't make me want to flirt harder or try some new angle. It made me wish I could be someone she trusted enough to lean on.

I looked away before my face decided to share information I’d specifically told it to keep confidential.

“Look,” I said, picking up a small pebble and tossing it into the dirt. “I'm not going to ask questions. I'm not going to tell anybody I found you out here. And I'm definitely not going to offer unsolicited advice, because we both know how that would end.”

“With me regretting not bringing a weapon?”

“See? You know me so well.”

Her lips curved. Another dimple. I was going to need medical attention.

“But,” I continued, “if you want someone to sit here and pretend the rest of the world doesn't exist for a while, I'm exceptionally qualified.”

She studied me.

I felt her staring at me, so I asked, “What?”

“Just trying to figure your endgame.”

I blinked at her suspicion. “No endgame, I’m here because I like you, Mikayla.”