“And you, Daphne Belle Beaumont-Darling, fell from the sky forty-one days ago at twenty-seven minutes past the hour.”
“What was the hour?” I ask him, just to be petulant.
“Two,” he says, holding my gaze. “In the afternoon.”
My cheeks go a bit pink. “Why do you remember that?”
He breathes out, quiet for a second before he nods his chin at me. “Do ye not remember it?”
I twist my mouth up as I think hard as I can back to it. “I remember you didn’t have a shirt on,” I say without really thinking.
His eyebrows shoot up, pleased. “Aye, ye would remember that.”
I roll my eyes. “Stop—”
“It’s very memorable.” He grins.
I cross my arms over my chest.
He laughs and I like the sound so much. Like you’re sitting by a fire with a drink in your hand that you love, that’s how his laugh feels when it hits you—it warms you up from the inside out. And even though I’m trying my best to appear as apathetic towards him as I can muster, his laugh unfurls me a tiny bit, and another peculiar confession escapes me.
“I remember your eyes too.”
His head tilts a bit, and he takes another half a step closer to me. “What about my eyes?”
I swallow, lick my bottom lip, drop my eyes from his gaze. My heart’s beating away now, like an impossible, treacherous little drum.
He pinches his bottom lip mindlessly, then takes a conscious step away from me, nodding as he does it.
He takes a big breath. “Sure, but I’m impressed that ye remember them at all.”
“Why?” I shrug airily, as though I don’t think about his eyes sometimes how I think about his hand on my waist that day too.
His face goes a bit serious. “Because over on thon part of the island, there’s something in the water.”
“Jamison.” I roll my eyes.
He gives me a look. “A’m no’ lying to ye.”
“Stop,” I tell him, feeling a bit hot around my neck.
“A’m telling ye—” He gives me a tight smile. “The wee man puts something in the water.”
“Jem!” I growl.
“Daph.” He shakes his head. “He does.”
I glare at him. “No, he doesn’t.”
“How do ye ken?”
“He just doesn’t.” I shrug.
“But how do ye ken?”
“Because he wouldn’t!” I stomp my foot.
“Aye.” He nods, a bit vindicated. “So ye d?nnae really know.”
I shake my head at him. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
“Because ye know I’m right.” He gives me a look.
“No.” I give him one back. It’s deliberate and controlled. “Because I’m quite sure you’re very wrong.”
Jamison shakes his head, watching me closely. “I can see it, ye ken. Right there.” He reaches over and taps me between the eyebrows. “Yer worried it’s true.”
“Stop.” I whack his hand away. A bit because I want to, a bit just because I felt like touching him. “I didn’t come here for this.”
“What did ye come for?” he asks, eyebrows up and looking impatient.
I cross my arms over my chest and square my shoulders.
“I need some new clothes.” I gesture down to myself. “This is the only outfit I’ve got here, and it’s filthy.”
“Aye.” He nods solemnly. “True, the first time I saw ye I thought ‘that is a filthy lass.’”
I balk and he chuckles, grinning because he wanted a rise and I rose. I think I quite like giving him what he wants.
Then Jem shakes his head. “What’s wrong with yer clothes?”
“Nothing.” I shrug, staring down at myself, feeling stupid and embarrassed again.
Jamison ducks to catch my eye. “What?”
I shake my head and look back up at him, brave as I can. “It’s nothing.”
Then I look around the town square for the seamstress. I know I saw a shop here the other day; there was an oversize bobbin sitting on the roof—a bit misleading if it’s not a tailor. I look past Hook’s shoulder, then over mine. This stupid place is so confusing.
I think my eyes might look glassy, and I wonder if they do because Jamison doesn’t seem to drop them.
“Did someone say something to ye?” He takes my wrist in his hand, keeping me still.
I roll my eyes like the whole thing is stupid—which it is. It is stupid. I can be stupid, I know that. But stupid things can still be hurtful.