I bring the beer to my lips and my hand shakes uncontrollably. Shit. I squeeze the can so hard it dents and drain what’s left of the beer. And here I was doing so well.
I go about readying the boat for a day at sea, away from people who only manage to grate against my nerves just by breathing. There’s something so calming about being on the ocean, as far away from the desert and valleys that constantly haunt me. When I’ve got a pole in my hands they don’t shake, and my thoughts don’t drift to all I did wrong and all I lost.
With the bait hold full of sardines I check my gas gauge, poles, and step on the dock to untie. It’s when I’m untying the bow I hear a voice that makes my skin vibrate, whether it’s with interest or irritation, I’m not sure.
“Aden!”
Fuck. How the hell did she get past the gate? Maybe if I pretend I don’t see her she’ll leave.
I toss the tie-up ropes into the boat and move to the other side, but she intercepts me. Persistent little thing. “What do you want, Celia?”
She opens those thick lips, closes them, licks them, and fuck, I can’t take much more of that. Is it bad that I want to suck the mouth off a girl I can’t stand? I sidestep her and move to untie the other side of the boat. She follows on my heels.
“Aden, please, I’m—”
I get right in her face. Damn if the way she stumbles over herself isn’t cute as shit. “You’re what.”
She gasps and her wide green eyes move from my nose to my mouth to my chin and I curse under my breath because it feels like she’s stroking me with them. “I’m sorry.”
“Okay.” I slide around her again and climb on board.
Her arms drop to her sides and she watches as if she expects me to say more, but the truth is, I’ve never been good at relationships, friendships, fuckships, all ships I pretty much fail at. Boats I know. Boats I’m good at.
I fire up the engine.
“Wait, Aden!” She scrambles around to the stern and grips the side.
What the fuck is she doing?
She throws a leg up over the rail—I dart to the edge and grab her to wrangle her flailing body on board. “Are you fucking crazy? You can’t jump on a boat when the prop’s on!”
She pushes her shoulder-length hair behind her ears, her face pale.
Staring up at me, there’s something in her eyes, a vulnerability that calls to every male cell in my body to fix whatever it is inside her that’s broken, which is fucking bullshit. I don’t even know this girl.
I release her shoulders and stomp back to the cockpit to shut off the prop, then whirl on her. “Get off.”
Her eyebrows pinch together and she tucks her chin in, something I’m beginning to notice she does often. “You’re kicking me off your boat?”
“I’m going fishing, so unless you feel like playing deckhand all day, yes. Get off.”
She rolls those lips between her teeth and I have to look away to squelch the desire to kiss this obnoxious broad. She turns around suddenly and heads to the stern but freezes with her hand on the latched door. Then she pulls something from the waistband of her skirt, something small. She looks down at whatever it is, her shoulders slump, and she turns back toward me. “I’ll stay.”
“What?!” Is she insane?
She defies everything I thought I picked up from her and stomps to my side. “I’m staying.”
“I think you’re making a mistake.”
She rolls a silver coin between her fingers before tucking it back into her waistband. “I think you’re probably right.”
Fuckin’ hell, this woman! “Fine.” I turn and throw open the floor storage to snag a faded orange life vest. It smells like mildew but it’ll do the job. I hold it out to her. “Put this on. You wear it at all times.”
The light breeze brings the scent right to her and she crinkles up her nose.
“Do you, um . . . I mean, is it possible to get a cleaner one?”
I thrust it toward her.
Using her fingers like pincers she takes it and slides her arms through the holes. Acting like she’ll contract some fatal disease by touching it, she fumbles with the straps and clasps.
“Fuck, this’ll take all damn day.” I push her hands out of the way and fasten the straps, tightening them until I’m satisfied it won’t come off.
Then I turn my back on her to fire up the engine and pull out of the slip. “I got two rules on my boat,” I yell to her so she can hear me. “One, deckhands bait line. That’s it.”
She doesn’t reply but as I negotiate steering the boat away from the dock I catch her slowly sliding into a seat.
“Two, all deckhands drink beer on my boat.”
I peek down to see her arms wrap around her middle as the wind throws her hair around her face. Poor girl looks miserable. I grin to myself.
This might actually be fun.
I always did love a good torture session.
SAWYER
I’m on a boat. A real boat headed out into the middle of the ocean with a man I’ve known for twelve hours and managed to insult. Despite my apology, he’s hardly looked me in the eye. If the firm set of his jaw is any indication, I’d say he’s still pissed.
I don’t have time to concentrate on that. Right now all I can worry about is the two possible outcomes brought to me by using Celia’s stupid effing coin—I’m either going to throw up all over myself or die.
The farther away from land we go the more intense the ocean swells get, tossing the boat around with increasing aggression. Every muscle in my body is flexed to the point of pain, my hair is a massive crown of knots, and no matter how many times I try to slick it down, the wind manages to pull it back up. Not to mention I was not at all dressed for a day on a boat, not that I’d even know what’s appropriate for that, but my guess is a long skirt, tank top, and flip-flops only works in Ralph Lauren ads.
Okay, so sue me for wanting to look nice when I apologized. I stared at my clothing options for an hour before I finally dug through Celia’s closet looking for something halfway between sexy conservative and full-blown hooker. The skirt is long but sexy and tie-dyed in different shades of blue. I paired it with a navy blue spaghetti-strap tank that accentuates what little curves I have. The downside of the tank is my pasty skin is going to get fried out here in the sun. That’s okay; a sunburn I can get over, but death is hard to come back from.
I attempt to soothe my nerves by coming up with a plan for every possible scenario. Aden’s boat is equipped with shelter for a hurricane, a life ring if I go overboard, a bathroom for peeing or vomiting—whichever comes first. On cue my gut rolls in protest.
I feel full even though I haven’t eaten anything but a muffin and a cup of coffee, and yet something tells me if I coughed hard enough I’d lose everything in my stomach including, possibly, the organ itself.