I want to kick Jenkins for sharing that tidbit. I should’ve sent the photo to Cal along with his old watch and his lucky hat that he left behind, but I didn’t want to get rid of it. It’s not just because the image is of my uncle smiling bigger than I’ve ever seen with my own two eyes, but it’s the woman in the photo too. The wind tossing all her long hair, sun-kissed skin that highlights the freckles on her nose and shoulders, and the kind of smile that reminds me why I fought hard for this country. To protect the kind of carefree beauty in that photo.
But looking at her now, I never would’ve recognized her as the woman in the picture. Gone is that relaxed and lighthearted smile. Sure she’s still good-looking, but in more of an uptight kind of way. Her hair is much shorter, just touching her shoulders, but just as wild, and her body language seems . . . constipated.
“All I need is a key and I’ll be out of your hair.”
“Well, come on.” I jerk my head for her to come aboard.
She steps closer to the boat and as if she forgot she’s over water her body locks up and she sways backward.
“Uh . . .” She studies the space between the dock and the platform off the back. “How do—”
“Here.” I hold out my hand and she stares at it like it’s a dead fish. There’s still some blood and scales under my nails from cleaning the dorado. “I ain’t gonna bite.”
She gives me a dull look.
“Take those fuckin’ shoes off.” Jenkins points to her feet with his drink in hand. “If anything will get you wet out here it’s them high heels.”
She kicks off her shoes and her toenails are painted a shade so light it matches the color of her pale feet. She reaches for my hand and it feels so small in my palm. I pull her on board with more force than she was expecting and she crashes into my chest. She tilts her head back to look at me and blasts me with the full force of her green eyes. Wide, a little scared, and fuckin’ gorgeous. Her full lips part and the wind tosses her hair across her face.
I make no attempt to step back but look down at her and wait for her reaction, because unnerving this girl is highly entertaining.
As if she can read my mind her eyes narrow and she wiggles out of my arms and wrinkles her nose. “What is that smell?”
“That, freckles, is the smell of fish guts and a hard day’s work.”
She pinches her nose between her fingers.
I nod to the grill, trying not to smile. “You hungry? We’ve got plenty.”
“Oh God, no.” She seems to catch herself for being so blunt and drops her hand from her face. “I mean, thanks, but I’m good.”
“You sure?” Jenkins grins wide showing off all six of his teeth. “Colt here grills a good filet.”
She frowns and the palm of her hand goes to her stomach. “Oh . . . yeah, no I really, I can’t.”
“Why not?” I don’t really care, but I’m still smiling because I like watching her scramble for an excuse.
“I, a . . .” She juts out her chin. “I’m a vegetarian.”
“Is that right?”
“Can’t no one live off plants.” Jenkins runs his clear eye up and down Celia’s body. “A woman needs protein to grow dem babies.”
“He’s right.” Leaning back against the outrigger I shrug. “Can’t make babies without takin’ in some meat.” I wink.
Her eyes pop wide and a blush overtakes her fair skin. “If I could just get the key I’ll let you two get back to . . . whatever it is you do.”
“Suit yourself.” I head into the cabin and the soft sound of her feet padding along the floor follows behind me.
So this is my uncle Cal’s favorite tenant, Celia Forrester.
Funny . . . I don’t know what I expected when and if I finally met the woman, but I know this hoity-toity girl is not it.
SAWYER
What is it about California that grows the most attractive men?
I was expecting Cal’s nephew to be, I don’t know, less consuming. This guy takes up space and that has very little to do with his size. His cocky smile and confident demeanor seems to absorb all the air in the atmosphere.
Thankfully he’s kind of a dick so it’s not hard to pull my eyes away from the way his pale-blue shirt hugs his wide chest. Like Brice, Aden is tan but in a more unpolished way that screams of long days spent outdoors. My goal is to keep my gaze to the floor, but like a magnet my eyes are pulled down his abdomen to a narrow waist and thick muscular thighs encased in faded jeans, worn out in parts and spattered with what looks like blood. I shake off a fantasy involving me, those jeans, a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, and my stain-stick. I dip my gaze to avoid staring only to discover he’s wearing brown leather flip-flops and even his feet are attractive. My stomach is antsy, flipping and tripping all over itself. Rather than a quarter to assist me in faking Celia I think a bottle of Pepto would’ve been more helpful.
A framed photo gets shoved into my face and because I’m staring at the floor the movement startles me. The frame is nothing fancy, like one you’d get from a drugstore, and the photo is of two people—it’s Celia. She’s grinning, her hair blowing all around that contagious smile, the happiness of a woman sucking the marrow out of life. She’s sitting cross-legged on the beach next to a man with a wide-brimmed hat and longish gray hair. That must be Calvin Hurtado. There’s a bucket between them and they both have something in their hands. Rocks or . . .
“Oysters.” Aden nods to the photo.
“I know that.” Ugh, I’m a horrible liar. I internally cuss out my sister for asking me to do this.
He grins, sexy and lopsided, and framed in a day’s-plus worth of beard growth. It’s then I notice now standing this close that one of his front teeth is a little crooked, which adds something boyish to his already handsome face. “Guess that vegetarian thing is more a selective preference, huh?”
“Yeah, well . . . shellfish doesn’t count.” Dammit, I sound like an idiot. Why did I say I was a vegetarian? Stupid, Sawyer. Celia has always been adventurous and that includes what she ate.
This guy is unnerving.
“If you say so.” He shakes his head and turns away. I set the photo down and follow him to the back of the tiny cabin.
The living space inside the boat is small, cramped like a studio apartment where the full-sized bed, living room, and kitchen all share the same space. There’s nothing by way of decoration, except for an American flag that spans one wall and is pinned up by thumbtacks. An unmade bed and basic generic plaid love seat round out the décor. Clearly Cal’s nephew doesn’t have a live-in girlfriend or wife as the place reeks of bachelorhood. There’s very little that would point to personal touches, a few dirty ball caps, clothes on the floor, and the kitchen table is covered in what looks like mail—both opened and still sealed. How can he stand living in this disorganization?
“See something you don’t like?”
My cheeks flame and I push up close to the table as he sorts through a single drawer. “I don’t mean to stare; it’s just I’ve never been inside a boat before . . . I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”
“Aden.” He looks up at me with those arresting chocolate-brown eyes. “Most people call me Colt.”
“Colt, like . . . a baby horse?”
He goes back to searching the drawer. “Yeah, or Colt like my last name.”