Hook, Line, and Sinker (Bellinger Sisters #2)

“I missed my sister. I missed this place. I even missed you a little,” she said playfully, but sobered again quickly. “That’s all.”

“Is that all? Missing people? Or are you chewing on something you can’t quite name?” Fox wished he had his shirt off, so he could feel less exposed. And what sense did that make? “Same way you came in here, poking at me until I gave in and agreed to have the damn talk . . . Maybe you’re just doing the same with this place. Poking around until you find the way in. But you know what? If it doesn’t happen, it doesn’t make you guilty of anything, Hannah.”

Slowly, gratitude spread across her features, and he let out a breath. “Thanks.” She stared at something invisible in the distance. “Maybe you’re right.”

Desperate for some way to get the attention off himself, at least while he was attempting to dole out comfort, he coughed into his fist. “Want me to take a look at them? I might recognize one or two.”

“Really? You still . . . sing shanties on the boat?”

“I mean, not very often. Sometimes Deke starts one off. Not joining in kind of makes you a dick. Case in point, Brendan never sings along.”

That got a laugh out of her, and some weight left his shoulders. “Okay, I’ll go grab them.” She seemed nervous about the whole thing, so they might as well get comfortable. While Hannah was in the guest room, he put their bowls in the sink and moved to the living room, taking a spot on the couch. A minute later, she returned with a faded blue folder stuffed with papers and sat on the floor in front of the coffee table, pausing slightly before opening it. She ran a finger over a line of script, brows drawn in concentration, then handed him a stack.

Fox scanned a few lines on the first page, didn’t recognize the lyrics, but the second one was very familiar. “Ah, yeah. I know this one well. The old-timers still sing it sometimes in Blow the Man Down.” His chuckle betrayed his disbelief. “I didn’t know Henry Cross wrote this. You always kind of assume these songs are a million years old.”

Hannah shifted into a cross-legged position on the floor. “So you know that one. Can you sing it?”

“What? Like, right now?”

She gave him puppy-dog eyes, and his jugular stretched like the skin of a drum. Sucker. But knowing he could help, knowing he could do something to potentially make her happy? That was like holding the keys to a kingdom. Even if he had to sing to get to the other side. The desire to give Hannah what she needed had him adjusting the paper in his lap, clearing his throat.

There was a huge possibility this wouldn’t mean much to her, either, but when she looked at him like that, he had to try. “I mean, if it means that much to you . . .”

In a voice that definitely wouldn’t win him any contests, Fox started to sing “A Seafarer’s Bounty.”





Chapter Twelve



Born unto the fog

And ferried by the tide,

To the womb of his ship

Where he earns his pride,

A seafarer’s bounty

Means coin in hand and no one at his side.

The hunt has no end.

It’s a game, it’s the fame.

A love to defend.

A treasure to claim.

Boots to the deck, men, come on now, let’s ride.

Trade the glass

For my lass.

And the wild

For my child.

Trade the wind

For her.

Trade the mayhem For them.

And it’s anchors down. There’s a life beyond the tide.

Treasure is not mere

Rubies and gold.

When a seafarer finds his warmth

From the cold.

No longer are the deep blue waves his only bride.

Home is the fortune,

Health is the prize.

To lie in her arms,

To look in their eyes,

By the laws of the land, a sailor will learn to abide.

Trade the glass

For my lass.

And the wild

For my child.

Trade the wind

For her.

Trade the mayhem

For them.

And it’s anchors down. There’s a life beyond the tide.

Soon, loves, soon.

Soon, loves, soon.

One last ride,

At the rise of the moon.

Then it’s home to my bounty.

We’ll write our family’s tune.



Hannah was eleven when she got her first pair of headphones.

She’d always sung along loudly to whatever played on satellite radio. Always had a knack for remembering the words, knowing exactly where the tempo picked up. But when she got those headphones, when she could be alone with the music, that’s when her enjoyment of it soared.

Since they were a gift from her stepfather, of course they were completely over the top. Pink noise-canceling ones that were almost too heavy for her neck to hold up. So she’d spent hours upon hours in her room lying down, head supported by a pillow, playing the music her mother had loaded onto her phone. Billie Holiday had transported her to the smoky jazz rooms of the past. The Metallica she’d downloaded, despite lacking her mother’s permission, made her want to rage and kick things. When she got a little older, Pink Floyd made her curious about instruments and method and artistic experimentation.

Music could cut her straight down the middle. Nothing else in her life had the power to do that. She often wondered if something was wrong with her that a real-life event could have less of an impact than a song written fifty years ago. But those two parallel lines—real life and art—had never collided like this. And for the second time since she’d met Fox, he was inside the experience with her. This experience she’d always, always had alone. Wanted to have alone. The first time had been at the record expo in Seattle when they’d shared a pair of AirPods in the middle of a busy aisle, the world ceasing to exist around them. The second time was now. In his living room.

Fox sang her father’s words, filling the unadorned living room with an echo from the past that wrapped right around her throat and squeezed.

His singing voice was slightly deeper than his speaking one, low and husky, like a lover whispering to someone in the dark, and that fit him so well, the intimate quality of it. Like he was passing on a secret. It racked her with a warm shiver and circled her in a hug she desperately needed, because, oh God, it was a beautiful song. Not just any song, though . . . It was about her family.

She knew from the first refrain.

An intuition rippled in her fingertips until she had to grasp them together in her lap, and as more and more lyrics about a fisherman’s growing dedication to his family passed Fox’s lips, his image begun to blur. But she couldn’t blink to rid herself of the moisture, could only let it pool there, as if any movement might swipe the melody from the air, rob her of the growing burn in the center of her chest.

So many times she’d tried to bridge the gap between herself and this man who’d fathered her, and never succeeded. Not when she’d gone to visit the brass statue in his honor up at the harbor, not in looking at dozens of photographs with Opal. She’d felt a tremor of nostalgia upon opening Cross and Daughters with Piper, but . . . there had been nothing like this. Hearing the song was almost like having a conversation with Henry Cross. It was the closest she would ever come. This explanation of his conflicting loves—the sea and his family.

At one point, at least while writing this song, he’d wanted to quit fishing. He’d wanted to stay home more. With them. It just didn’t happen in time. Or he kept being pulled back to the ocean. Whatever the reason may be, with his confession, he finally became real.

“Hannah.”

Fox’s worried voice brought her head up, and she found him rising from the couch, coming toward her. He let the paper float down to rest on the table, and she watched it happen through damp eyes, her heart flapping in her throat.