He cursed like a pirate too.

Then he glanced over at her. “Don’t worry, I’ll get this out of your way.”

She smiled sweetly. “Don’t worry, I’ll get this out of your way, Bailey. The name’s Bailey Sullivan.”

His gaze flicked to her nametag, back to her eyes. “I can read.”

But he couldn’t remember?

She remembered everything.

The sullen expression on his thirteen-year-old face the first summer he’d been packed off to his grandmother’s. The outrage that had replaced it when Bailey had accepted her best friend’s dare and squirted him, long and cold, with the garden hose.

The summer she was fourteen and she cajoled him to the beach with her every afternoon. His kiss one July day-her first. She hadn’t known to open her mouth for his tongue, and her skin had heated like sunburn when he whispered the instruction. Then his tongue had touched the tip of hers and he’d tasted like pretzels and Pepsi and salt water. Going dizzy, she’d clutched his bare shoulder, her fingertips grazing across gritty golden sand sprinkled on his damp tanned flesh.

Two years after that, the darkness of her backyard and the ghostly glow of the soccerball-sized hydrangeas. The fresh scent of night-blooming jasmine. The flinch of her stomach as his bony boy fingers touched her belly skin on their first, bold approach to her breast. The instant pebbling of her nipple beneath her neon bikini top and her naïve, desperate hope he wouldn’t notice.

He had.

“Something wrong?” he asked now.

He’d always paid such close attention.

She tossed her hair back and crossed her arms. “Nothing access to my car won’t fix right up.”

“Give me a sec.”

She let herself watch him stride off, his long legs so familiar, the wide plane of his back and his heavy-muscled shoulders so not. What had he done to earn that beefcake physique? What had he done with his life? What had happened to his eye?