and sure, which is the only reason I didn’t do a face-plant onto the pavement. I’m sure Macie would be all over his muscled shoulders, which my fingers are still gripping. Oops.
I force my hands to let go, though I can’t help but survey the rest of him. His chest is a solid wall, his hips narrow, legs long under grease-stained Levi’s. I upgrade my “Overall” category from “could be good looking” to “might be totally hot,” and my belly tightens in this really awesome way.
That is, until I remember Andrew and look away with a guilty twinge.
“Summer Girl?” he asks abruptly, almost rudely. He definitely makes an unsettling first impression. It must be the beautiful eyes oddly coupled with his rough impatience. He seems to be something like the lake I’m about to cross: lovely to look at but unpredictable, too.
“Katherine D’Arcy,” I say.
He lets out a short, judgmental kind of heh at my name, as if to say, Of course it is.
“Something wrong with that?” I ask. My last nerve flares, and I adjust my backpack over my shoulder. It’s been a long bus ride, and I’m in no mood for any crap.
“Just that I’m Bennet,” he says with a mildly amused shrug.
“How is that supposed to answer my question?” I ask, my shoulders tensing and rising closer to my ears.
He draws his eyebrows together in a puzzled look. “Darcy and Bennet. Pride and Prejudice?” He says it like a question, as if I’ve never heard of them. What I’ve never heard of before is a guy who can correctly reference Jane Austen, so I’m not sure how to respond.
I say the first stupid thing that comes to mind. “But I’m D’Arcy with an apostrophe.” My shoulders relax when he doesn’t roll his eyes.
“Well, your name hardly matters,” he says, and I catch a glimpse of friendly sparkle in his blue eyes. “No one on the island will call you anything but Summer Girl.”
“Why?”
“Your stay is too short for them to bother with more than a nickname. It’s the same every summer, every girl. Don’t take it personally.”
“Okay,” I say, not knowing if he’s stating an unavoidable fact or handing me a challenge.
“I’ve been on the island for a little over two years,” he says, taking my backpack and smaller bag from me. His biceps flex, stretching the edges of his sleeves. “And barely anyone knows my name. They all still call me ‘Sully’s Replacement.’”
“Sully?” I ask, at the same time thinking I’m glad I’m not the only newish person here. Maybe we can be friends.
“Sully was the chief mate on the ferry before me.”
He studies me, looking me up and down. My chest warms, though my gut twists because I know what he must see. I’m wearing a navy skirt and white oxford, both of which are horribly wrinkled. We won’t even go into my mussed hair. It’s embarrassing. Andrew could probably make a cross-Atlantic flight and come out neatly pressed on the other end. Not me.
Bennet’s gaze lands on the sapphire ring on my right hand, and he seems to make up his mind about me. Unfortunately, judging by the sour twist of his mouth, I don’t think it’s anything I’ll find flattering.
“I’ve been assigned to get your things onboard the ferry. Do you have any more luggage?” The sparkling eyes are gone. He’s all business now.
I look around and find my two big suitcases where the bus driver has unceremoniously unloaded them on the curb. It looks like my things have multiplied since I left home, and my face flushes.
Bennet rakes one hand through his brown hair, the sun picking up strands of red. He needs a haircut. Or maybe not. No, he looks good like he is. Once again, I force myself to avert my eyes.
“It’s not all clothes,” I say, trying to justify the number of bags.
“I hope not.”
“I brought books, too.”
“Awesome,” he says without any inflection. He adjusts my backpack and smaller bag on his broad shoulders then picks up a suitcase in each hand. It leaves me with only my purse.
“I can carry something more,” I say.
He takes both smaller bags off his shoulders and drops them at my feet, adding “Good.” Then he heads off toward the ferry dock.
I groan under the weight and trot after him. He turns over his shoulder and says, “You can pick up your ticket at that little red house. Calloway paid your way over.”
I look to where he’s pointing. The little red house is