Stop being such a wimp, Sawyer. Celia would do this, there’s no reason I can’t do it too.
The internal pep talk continues for a while until land fades and there’s nothing but water three hundred and sixty-five degrees around us. I don’t know how long we’ve been going, but the sound of the roaring engine and slap of the waves against the boat start to lull me to an acceptance of my fate. I’m stuck on a boat at sea with nothing but a contagious flotation device to protect me. If the ocean doesn’t kill me, whatever creeping fungus living in this thing around my neck will.
My eyes scan the water encompassing the vessel, keeping a lookout for a huge dorsal fin. The ominous du-dum, du-dum, du-dum dudum plays over and over in my head. This boat does kind of remind me of Quint’s. My pulse speeds. I’m going to die. I curse Celia for putting this damn coin in my hand. This was a mistake, a huge mistake.
I’m breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth when the boat slows and the engine cuts. Aden’s powerful legs come into view and I tilt my head back to peer up at him.
His light brown hair is streaked lighter in places from the sun, and though it’s not long enough to be a mess from the wind, it’s angled away from his forehead and strong brow line.
He pushes his sunglasses up. “You look like you’re gonna puke.”
Hearing the word calls the urge to do just that even closer to the surface. “It’s a possibility.”
He grunts, then turns and ducks into the belly of the boat. I stand up and sway with the rocking of the waves, which does nothing for my stomach. I grip the railing and look down into the water. It’s dark blue and so deep there’s no way I’d be able to see in time to react if a shark jumped up and pulled me under—oh God.
I stumble back at the thought and hit a solid wall of muscle. Steel bands come around my waist to steady me and I’m hit with the scent of soap, sunblock, and beer.
“Sit.” He motions to a padded bench seat that runs along the side of the deck.
I start to ask if we’re safe out here, but decide that’s not something Celia would say, so instead I nod. He guides me there, then hands me a little white pill and a bottle of water.
“What is it?”
“It’ll help with the motion sickness.”
I try not to think too hard on the fact that there’s no way he washed his hands before palming the tablet. “Oh, thank you.” I stare at the pill and prepare to toss it to the back of my throat, but again . . . I don’t know this guy. What if he’s trying to drug me so he can push me off the boat and leave me out here to drown? I’m still staring at it when suddenly his nose appears just inches from mine. Bracing his hand on the railing at my back he glares at me with a fierceness that makes me cower.
“Regardless of what you think you know about my integrity, Celia Forrester, I would never . . . ever . . . hurt a woman, understand?”
His nearness combined with his rumbled demand has me frozen beneath his gaze.
“Tell me you understand that.”
My eyelids flutter.
His expression turns sad. “Cece . . .”
I startle at his calling me by my sister’s nickname.
“Cal adores you. You’re practically family.” He pushes an errant hair that got stuck between my lips off my face.
I lean forward, drawn to his tender touch.
“I’m sorry about the conclusions I drew from seeing your photos. And I’m sorry about being a dick earlier. Just . . .” God, his voice is so soft, so vulnerable. “Take the pill.”
His command is firm and the sincerity I hear in his voice is impossible to deny.
“Here’s to swimming with bow-legged women,” I mumble, and toss the pill to the back of my throat, then wash it down with enough water to get the job done without overfilling my sensitive stomach.
“Was that a quote from Jaws?”
I smile and tug on the collar of my infectious life vest. Truth is, while Celia was out seeing the world, I was home experiencing the Hollywood version of it. “Yeah.”
He stares at my lips until I shift uncomfortably.
“Right.” He pushes up and puts some much needed space between us. “That should kick in pretty quick.”
“Thank you.”
He squints out into the ocean then tilts his chin. “See that?”
Gripping the rail firmly to make sure I don’t topple over the edge, I follow his line of sight to see a cluster of birds diving into the water. “Are they—” I’m robbed of breath when I see my worst fear materialize in the distance. “Sharks!” I clutch my gut and drop back down to my seat, my pulse pounding in my neck. “Oh God, we’re gonna die!”
“Porpoises.” He moves around me with all the control and elegance of a man who is comfortable negotiating the unsteady footing of a boat out in open sea. “And they don’t kill people.”
It’s a good thing he never met my sister because he’d know right away I’m not her. Hell, she’d already be swimming circles around the boat, probably naked, with a bag of old bread to feed the fish with. She sure as heck wouldn’t be swallowed up by her fear, balled into a semi-fetal position on the verge of passing out.
“The porpoises and birds follow the schools of sardines.” He grabs a fishing pole and messes with the thin line. “The yellowfin are below the sardines.”
I blow out a long relieved breath. “Not sharks. Okay.” I can do this. What would Celia do? “So how do we catch them?”
“You are a deckhand. You won’t be catching anything.”
“So . . . what will I be doing?”
My question seems to intrigue him. He smiles. It’s slight, slow, and sends butterflies through my belly. “Stand up.”
He leans the tall pole against a single chair sitting in the middle of the back of the boat. I stand and wobble a bit with the instability of the rocking waves. His warm callused hands grip my shoulders to steady me. “You good?”
“Yeah, I think so.” I don’t know what’s making me dizzier, the ocean or his proximity.
He steps back and runs his eyes down my body in a clinical way and I’m surprised to feel disappointed in his lack of interest at what he sees. “This won’t do.” He drops to a squat at my feet and cups my calves over the cotton of my skirt.
I sway. My hand shoots out to brace myself against his shoulder. He runs those big hands up the back of my legs, taking the fabric with them and stopping behind my knees that are now practically knocking together with nerves.
“What’re you—”
With a jerk to the material he bunches it between my thighs and ties it in a knot, front to back. Great, now I look like I’m wearing a saggy diaper. “Much better.”
Reluctantly I drop my hand from his shoulder so he can stand.