I don't sleep well that night. After an active day of hiking and arguing with Warren about where we should eat dinner, I should be mentally and physically exhausted. I, however, can't stop myself from replaying the day in my head as I lay beneath the soft cotton sheets.

I regret every moment I spent with Warren today. I shouldn't have been so selfish and introduced him to something I used to do with the love of my life. In some, volatile, distressing way, Warren reminded me of Carter. Before today, I never would have thought them to be anything alike. When comparing Warren to Carter, Carter was a saint; he was never the type of guy to sleep around, drink, or act in a rebellious manner. He was the star basketball player and the nicest guy, always respecting everyone around him and acting so down to earth. Warren is nothing like that – he's arrogant, futile, and degrades women.

But there are similarities.

Seeing Warren away from campus has done something to my perception of him. While he's usually obnoxious with his opinions, he was quiet and humble, only speaking when finding a geocache or commenting on how beautiful the scenery was. I was so dumbfounded that I asked him why he was acting this way. He shrugged and told me I shouldn't judge him by what the rumours on campus say even if they are true; that there are always other pieces to a person. He even told me that he enjoys being home because he's leaving all the fuss, his busy life, and the asphalted roads of Vancouver behind to be greeted with nature.

Which, once upon a time, is something that Carter would have said to me.

Their sense of humour is similar, too. I knew the moment I pointed out Dickson Falls that he was thinking of something inappropriate – he had an impish glint in his dark blue eyes. It's a dry sense of humour with a touch of immaturity.

Although it's extremely unfair to compare the two, the similarities are there. And I hate to say it, but I kind of...enjoy this side of Warren. When he lets go of his asshole-all-star-persona, there are different layers to him. He's actually...nice.

Shocking, I know.

Sleep eventually comes to me, and the next morning, I'm the first one awake. I roll over in the sheets and look at Warren's sleeping face.

They say that lying to yourself is a bad habit, that it causes self-deception. So I'm not going to lie to myself. Warren is an attractive man, and I can understand why women throw themselves at him. He can also be excruciatingly charming.

Sometimes, I catch myself staring at him and his lashes that are too long to belong to a man; his square jaw; his pink lips; his stunning dark blue eyes. The colour of his hair is unique, too. Almost like melted chocolate with hints of cinnamon. His looks alone could turn a believer into a sinner.

Tearing my gaze away from his face, I look at the time. It's almost seven. Knowing Warren, he'll be asleep until ten at the latest. So I decide that I'm going to go for a run.

I get ready quickly, brushing my teeth and changing from my pyjamas to a pair of workout shorts and a tank top. I also tie my hair up in a ponytail.

Before I grab my runners and leave, I write Warren a quick note, leaving it on the nightstand between the two beds in case he wakes up and I'm gone. He's probably smart enough to know I'll be back later. I, however, feel uncomfortable going somewhere without someone knowing my whereabouts.

Dropping the pen atop the paper, I grab my runners, tug them on, and then head out the door.

I take a deep breath of the salty oceanic air and begin to run.

* * *

"Nice run?"

Those are the first words I hear when I return. Warren is sitting on the bed, wearing nothing but navy-blue swim shorts. His hair is damp, and there are still specks of water on his broad chest. The familiar smell of his cologne – something that reminds me of sandalwood with a hint of smoke – hits me as I walk to my bed, never taking my eyes off his brawny body.

Only when I'm rummaging through our shared suitcase for a change of clothes do I look away. While I gather a pair of jean shorts and a peach-coloured halter top I mentally scold myself for ogling at him like some hung-up teenage girl. He's a player. Not my type. No way.

"Looking for something?" Warren asks, his breath hot on my ear.

A scream lodges itself in my throat as I turn around. I almost swallow my own tongue when my eyes meet his naked chest. I've been this close to him many, many times, but never caught off-guard. This is new, and I hate to say that I don't mind the view. An image of me running my palms up and down his bare skin flitters across my mind, and I shove it away in an extremely aggressive manner. I refuse to think of him as anything but an acquaintance.

"See something you like?" The teasing tone in his voice makes me think he doesn't mind my gawking. I glance up, meeting his cocky grin. I roll my eyes – of course he's enjoying this. It's something he's used to. "I'll let you take a lick if you'd like."

He winks at me.

"No," I reply, turning away. I grab one of his shirts and toss it at him. "Put a shirt on. Besides, who said I wanted to lick anything?"

I'm partially surprised by my response. It could come across in two different ways: a) he could think I'm being serious, or b) he could think I'm flirting with him.

For the second time today, I mentally scold myself. Usually, I'm good at getting my point across; my words are one-sided and make sense. I don't want to lick him and I'm not flirting with him. Period.

Warren runs a hand through his hair and chuckles. "Did Nova Elliot just make a joke?"

"You brought up the licking," I reply. "I'm just shutting down the conversation before it goes too far." That's a lie – it's already gone too far. Talking about anything remotely intimate makes me uncomfortable for numerous reasons.

"Yeah, I suppose I did start the conversation," he drawls, leaning over to pick up the shirt I threw at him. He – thankfully – puts the grey muscle shirt on, and then turns around. "While you were sweating and making me feel like a lazy ass, I went out and got us some breakfast." He turns back to me and holds out what looks to be a sandwich wrapped in chequered paper.

I blink in surprise. Warren bought me a breakfast sandwich when I didn't ask for one?

"It's vegetarian," he adds quickly. "I, uh, hope you like avocados, tomatoes, and alfalfa sprouts – whatever the fuck that is." His nose wrinkles and I have to hold back a laugh. He's obviously disgusted with what I eat.

"I do," I reply, taking the food from him. "Thank you."

"No problem," he shrugs.

I decide to eat before changing – there's no point in risking staining my shirt – so I sit down on the bed and unwrap the sandwich. Warren sits across from me, on his bed, and pulls out his phone. I don't know what he's scrolling through, but something tells me he's not interested in it.

"So," I say. "Where are we going today? It's your choice – I made you go to the national park yesterday."

He tosses his phone to the side. "You didn't make me do anything. I've been wanting to see that place for years, and I enjoyed it as much as you did." He pauses and extracts a keychain from his pocket. My eyes widen – it's the keychain from the first geocache. With a smug smile, he adds, "I may have broken the rules and not put anything back in exchange –"

"I'll let it slide," I joke. "It was your first time."

"Is this becoming a habit, you making jokes?"

I shake my head. "Don't get used to it. So, where are we going?"

Warren purses his lips and glances out the small window. " I was thinking we could hit the Hopewell Rocks for a couple of hours, and the drive to Masstown Market. Maybe stay in a hotel there."

"How long is the drive?" I ask, taking the final bite of my sandwich. "And what is the Masstown Market?"

"It's a market," he states, "with a grocery store, restaurant, garden, bakery, deli, dairy bar, and gift shop all combined together. There's also a lighthouse that has the best fish and chips in the world." He pauses and frowns at me. "You do eat fish, right?"

I nod. I'm a pescatarian; I eat any type of seafood, but aside from that I eat no meat products.

"Cool," he says, standing up. "Let's get going, then. The Hopewell Rocks are only half an hour away. Masstown Market is two hours from there."

"Okay," I reply, gathering the garbage. I make a mental note to let him pick where we eat more often because it seems he has a fairly good sense of knowing where to go. "Help me pack everything up, and we'll begin our adventure."

* * *

The effect that time and tide can have on cliffs and coves is absolutely stunning. The Hopewell Rocks are like wonderful works of art created by the ocean tides. There are a lot of stairs to descend in order to get to the ocean floor, but the stairs are designed in a way where you don't notice how long it takes – the view is that spectacular.

Before arriving at the Hopewell Rocks, Warren and I stopped at a dollar store and each bought a pair of black Crocs. It was his idea to do so, and when I asked him why, he told me it was pointless to risk muddying our shoes while we explored the ocean floor. I thought his idea was stupid at first, but when we were on the ocean floor, I realized it was a smart idea. If we had stuck with our own shoes they would have been soaked and dirty by the time we got back.

After spending a couple of hours around the rocks and marvelling at how much they reminded me of flowerpots due to their shape and the rich amount of green that sprouted from the tops, we hiked back up the stairs. We also left our shoes at the top in case anyone wanted to use them in the future.

The road trip to Masstown Market was surprisingly enjoyable. Warren let me play the music, and he started telling me a little about his family. I learned that Hazel is four years older than him and that she's also a fantastic volleyball player. She had a strong future with the sport but eventually decided to follow their mother's footsteps and become a lawyer. Their parents – Karen and Cameron – met at a concert in Toronto when they were twenty-four, and were married within a year.

And then there's the fact that his family is ridiculously huge. When he told me about how many siblings his dad has, I began to feel extremely nervous about Canada Day and the wedding. When I agreed to this imprudent plan, I thought I was only going to have to make an impression on a handful of people, not the whole Ashford clan.

That conversation, however, is the last thing on my mind as we sit at a stone picnic table beneath a red umbrella and in the shadow of a majestic lighthouse while eating the best fish and chips I've ever had. When Warren told me earlier that the Fish and Chip Boat had the best fish and chips, I thought he was just saying that because he's from this area and felt like he needed to. That was an erroneous assumption on my part, though, because I've already eaten two helpings and I still want more.

The batter is gluten-friendly, making it light and tasty; the fries are home-cut and flavourful; the tartar sauce is delicious; and the coleslaw is creamy and tangy.

"So?" Warren asks through a mouthful. "What do you think?"

I look up from my slightly greasy fingertips and half-eaten plate. I reach for a napkin and wipe the corners of my mouth. "You were right," I sigh. "This food is incredibly delicious."

"Can I hear that again?"

I drop the napkin to the stone and flash him an unimpressed look. He's smirking at me, clearly enjoying the fact that I've said the most infrequent thing possible. His smirk broadens, and I roll my eyes. "Wallow in it all you want," I reply dryly. "That's the last time you're ever going to hear it."

"Whatever you say." He shakes his head and turns his attention back to the food. I watch as his eyebrows furrow, and then as he pushes the plastic dish away.

"Are you finished?" I ask. I'm surprised – the man can usually eat platefuls of food.

He shrugs. "Even I get full."

I eye his food greedily. He spent a fair amount of money on these plates and I couldn't bear to see them go to waste, but I also don't want to make him think I eat like a horse. I look up, meeting that same grin. He raises his eyebrows and I look away. I really, really want what's left of his food. He seems to pick up on this because before I know it, he's pushing the plate toward me.

"Go ahead."

I shake my head. "I really shouldn't – I've already eaten so much..."

Warren reaches up and pushes his sunglasses back. He cocks an eyebrow. "There's nothing hotter than a girl with an appetite. Besides, we're on vacation – eat whatever the hell you want."

I don't know how long it's been since a boy has made me blush. But it happens. I look down at the food in front of me and dig right in so Warren doesn't inspect my facial reaction; I busy myself by taking a huge bite of the fried fish that's been slathered in tartar sauce and fresh lemon juice.

The last thing I want is for him to notice he's made me blush. It might give him the wrong idea. Yes, he's extremely attractive, but I could never be with him. We're polar opposites and share very few interests.

It would never work between us.