CHAPTER FOUR
Though it was cool out from the rain still coming down, as Grace got her recorder and notepad out of her bag, her skin was flushed a beautiful rose color that made it nearly impossible for Dylan to keep his hands to himself.
He had spent the past three days ferrying a new boat to a friend in Portland, Oregon, and all the while he’d thought about her. Mason, too. Seventy-two hours of looking at the situation from every angle and he was still in the same place he’d started.
He could easily see himself with both mother and child.
And Grace was still the prettiest woman he’d ever set eyes on.
Dylan had always loved women. The way they smelled. The way they moved. The sweet little sounds they made. But though he’d had as much female companionship as he’d wanted during the fifteen years since he’d hit puberty, he’d never wanted anyone the way he wanted Grace.
And he hadn’t even kissed her yet.
His mouth curved up into a grin just thinking about how hot that was going to be.
Today Grace would ask him her questions. But soon, he’d want answers from her. Where had she come from? What had her childhood been like? Why was she single instead of married to Mason’s father? And who the hell could have been stupid enough to walk away from her and her amazing kid?
If they had been out on his boat right now—the cockpit had always been a damned good confessional and he’d never met anyone who could hold back their true thoughts and feelings at sea—he could have had the answers out of her by the time they got back to the dock. But on land, he’d have to bide his time a little longer. Hopefully not too long, though, given that even the way she tucked her silky hair behind her ear—an ear he very much wanted to nibble on—was incredibly sexy.
She clicked the Record button on the small device on the table between them. “You’ve told me that sailing is all you ever wanted to do. Sailing and making boats.” He loved the sound of her voice, the slightly husky tone that, when combined with her obvious intelligence, made his synapses nearly short out. “I’d love to know why.”
He’d expected her to begin with the usual factual or technical questions that journalists had always tried to ask him before: At what age did you start sailing? What was the first boat you made? Why don’t you race professionally when you were a superstar at a very young age and could have been at the helm of your own World Cup contender by now?
Instead, she’d just cut straight to the heart of what made him who he was. And he could guess at the reason: This story wasn’t just about his heart…it was about hers, too.
“You’ve sailed before, haven’t you?” he asked.
“I’ve been out on a boat once, but there was hardly time to raise the sails.”
“Doesn’t matter if it’s got paddles or a motor or a jib. Did you like being out on the water?”
She smiled then, dazzling him with her answer before she’d even said it aloud. “I loved it.”
“What did you love about it?”
“Everything. The seagulls flying overhead right before we pulled away from the dock, as if they were excited that we were about to join them in their favorite playground. The dark water churning beneath the hull, flexible enough to let us through, yet strong enough to hold us up. The wind against my face, smelling like salt and fish and life. The fact that the way the waves rose was utterly unpredictable and yet somehow I felt safer than I ever had before.”
“Sometimes,” he told her, “when I’m out there hurtling before the wind, and the sky is full of stars, I swear I can hear the mermaids flirting with me.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised to find out they really were,” she said with another smile. One that confirmed that she, too, was tempted to flirt with him. “But what about when it’s not so smooth? I know from my research that you’ve crossed the Atlantic and have sailed thousands of miles in the Pacific, encountering gales and storms, even a couple of hurricanes. How do you keep loving sailing after you’ve been out there fighting for your boat…and even your life?”
“I like a perfect sail as much as the next person. But the truth is that when the wind whips itself up into a real fury, it can be one of the most beautiful things you’ll ever see.”
“I can see how a storm could be beautiful, but when you’re sailing through one, aren’t you scared?”
“Shitless,” he confirmed. “In fact, it’s usually right when you think you’ve got it all dialed in, when you’re sure that nothing can touch you and the world is your oyster—that’s when the wind and the waves decide it’s high time to show you just how vulnerable you really are. When you do finally come out on the other side, shaken as all hell, barely able to hold the wheel because every muscle in your body is on the verge of breaking apart, that’s when you really know you’re alive. And that’s also when you remember to appreciate every single moment of it.”
“Most people,” she said in a soft voice, “would probably think that if there’s the potential for that much danger, that much fear, they’d be better off not doing it.”
“I don’t have kids, obviously, but I imagine it’s not that different from the way a parent feels when she lets her baby’s hands go so that he can take his first step, or when she leaves him on the first day of kindergarten, or watches him drive away by himself behind the wheel of a car when he’s sixteen. Terrified and shaken, but amazed and thrilled at the same time. I wouldn’t decide not to have kids and give up all those beautiful moments just because I don’t want to have to face some scary ones, too.”
Before she could respond, they heard a loud crash followed by Mason’s voice rising to meet it. Grace was up out of her seat and running back toward the kitchen so fast that even though Dylan had been on the track team as a teenager, he had barely caught up with her by the time she flew inside the house.
Dylan’s mother gave them a slightly guilty look as she pointed to where Mason was sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor surrounded by a half-dozen big pots and pans. He was holding a plastic spatula in each hand and every time he banged them on the pots, he screamed with happiness.
“My kids always loved doing this,” his mother said in a voice barely loud enough to carry over the din, “but I forgot how loud it was until a few seconds ago.”
Grace still had her hand over her chest as she shook her head. “He’s obviously having a fabulous time,” she said into the pause between Mason’s drumbeats. “I just haven’t left him with very many people, so when I heard the loud noise—” She shook her head. “I shouldn’t have panicked like that, not when I knew he was in good hands.”
But he could see just how much his mother loved Grace’s commitment to her son. Just as much as Dylan did himself. He’d always been the most carefree Sullivan. No heavy responsibilities beyond getting a boat from one place to another or putting one together in time to make a customer happy. He’d had girlfriends, of course, but none who had ever had a chance of going beyond the just-having-fun stage. He was there for his family and close friends whenever they needed him for something, of course, but they were a pretty self-sufficient bunch. Dylan had always been able to sail away at a moment’s notice, whereas Grace was totally grounded by her responsibility to her son.
“You’re a mom,” Claudia said. “Panicking is what we’re best at.”
He was glad when Grace laughed and her expression smoothed out, away from the embarrassment that she’d clearly felt just moments ago.
“I’m happy to keep him entertained if you’d like to go back out and continue with your interview before the others get here. Of course, if you’d like to take him with you—”
“No,” Grace interrupted. “He’s having a great time with you.”
“It’s mutual,” his mother said with a big smile that spoke to just how much she meant it. “You’ve absolutely made my day by letting me play with him.”
Dylan caught his mother’s look as he and Grace headed back outside. One that said, You’re going to make all of my dreams come true with these two, aren’t you?
His silent response was just as clear: I’m sure as hell going to try.