“Not that I don’t appreciate the effort, but a skirt isn’t appropriate for deckhand work.” He stares at me for another second, then turns to the doorway that leads into the cabin and snags something from inside. He shakes open a pair of dark sunglasses, classic black Ray-Bans, and slides them on my face. Then he pops an old faded green ball cap on my head. It smells like dead fish and has sweat rings circling the base. I’m tempted to throw it off and douse my hair in hand sanitizer, but what would Celia do?
I reach up and tug the hat farther down my forehead, hoping he doesn’t notice my fingers tremble while the fear of lice and random skin diseases flitter through my mind.
“There. Now you’re ready.” He winks, then pulls the pole from its lean-to and motions for me to join him at the back corner of the boat.
I follow and he flips open a lid, then directs me to peek inside. I shuffle up to his side and peer into the container to see it’s filled with water and little fish.
“Bait.”
I swallow back a gag. “They’re alive.”
He chuckles. “These big fish ain’t stupid.” He reaches in and snags a sardine about half the size of his palm. It flips around in his grip, its mouth gaping. “You wanna hook it here, right behind the eye.”
“What?” I step back. “I’m not doing that.”
“Of course you are.” He tilts his head and meets me with a glare that I wish was more intimidating than it was attractive because I’m really trying to be tough here, but when he looks at me like that it’s impossible. “You jumped on my boat, I gave you a chance to get off, and you chose to stay. No one gets a free ride. You’re here, you work.” He holds up the fish, swiftly slides the hook into the thing’s head, and smiles. “There.” He heads to the opposite side of the boat and with a powerful flick of his arm he casts the line out toward the cluster of porpoises. He drops the pole into a metal tube attached to the backside rail, then grabs another rod.
My stomach drops.
“Your turn.” He shoves it into my hands.
“You’re crazy.”
His eyes narrow on me again, but this time he’s looking deeper, searching for something I’m glad he can’t see behind the dark shades. “She eats raw oysters . . . runs with bulls, but she can’t bait a hook.”
I’m Celia.
Be Celia.
“Give me that!” I swipe the line from him.
“Careful, that hook will go right through your hand.”
I bite back a snarky retort and hover over the small pool of little swimming fish. “So what, I just . . .” This is so gross. “Grab one?”
“That’s right. The faster the better.”
I lick my lips and feel his eyes on me, but I focus on the slimy scaled creatures that stand between me and my goal. I imagine the step-by-step instructions written out like a to-do list.
Number one, snag a fish.
My hand plunges into the tank. I miss. “Dammit.”
“That’s all right, try again. A little faster.”
I nod and focus, then plunge again, faster. My fingers wrap around a slippery body but it wiggles free. “Crap!”
He pushes up behind me, the heat of his chest and abs through his thin tee warming the back of my arm. “Like this.” His hand dives and snaps back with a fish. “Fast.” He drops the victim back in. “Try again.”
I belly right up to the tank. My pulse roars but with something different. Something I’m not used to feeling. It’s unease, but it lacks the bite of fear. It feels like . . . excitement.
My hand darts into the water. Snaps back. And . . . “I did it!” I shove my fist into the air and whirl around to Aden. “I got one!”
His lips stretch into a full, wide grin and he laughs. “You did! Good job.”
I feel energized by conquering something I feared that even the possibility of sharks just below my feet can’t wipe the grin off my face. I mentally check off my number one. Moving to number two. “Now what?”
“Hook it.” He points to a spot on the fish’s head. “Right there.”
I rake my teeth along my lower lip. He makes a funny sound in his throat.
“What?”
He clears his throat. “What?”
“You made a noise. Did I do something wrong?”
His eyes dart to my lips, then to the hook in my hand. “No, nothing. Go ahead.”
I turn back to the second task on my mental list.
Hook the fish. I line the sharp point up with the silvery top of the creature’s head. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper. With a squeal and a retch I slide the hook through, surprised at how easily it goes in. “I did it.”
“Like a pro.”
A spot of red on my hand catches my eye. “Ugh!” I shake my hand like a wet dog, barely containing a full-blown freak-out.
He grabs my wrist midair and presses it to his firm belly. “Blood.”
Panic seeps from my body with every swipe against his rippled abdomen as he cleans my palm on his shirt.
“All gone.” He drops my hand and grabs a pole, leaving me to fight off an unmanageable blush. “All right, deckhand, it’s time to pull in some fuckin’ fish.”
He demonstrates how to cast the line, but tells me casting isn’t my job and directs me to a seat.
“You take the fighting chair.” He helps me up into a seat that is fully equipped with padded armrests, drink holders, and even a place to put my feet. “Good, now open your legs.” I almost expect there to be some kind of hidden innuendo in his request, but sadly he’s all business. “The pole rests here between your thighs.” He places the handle into a metal tube. “Beautiful.”
I shift uncomfortably. “I thought you said I couldn’t fish.”
He leans against the side of the boat, his gaze cast out over the water. “You’re not. You’re watching that line for me and if you get a bite I’ll take the chair.”
“You don’t trust me to reel it in myself?”
“These aren’t lake trout, Celia. These fish could weigh hundreds of pounds. That chair is made for the hours-long fight it takes to reel them in.” He stares at me and shakes his head. “Something’s missing.” He pops an ice-cold can of beer and slides it into my hand.
“Oh, no thanks. I don’t really like beer.”
“My boat. My rules.” He takes a swig from his can, then nods to mine. “You drink.”
It’s hot. The beer’s cold. It’s something Celia would do. I tilt my head back and take a gulp. Huh . . . not bad. Why didn’t I like beer?
The sun feels great on my bare shoulders and arms. I have a moment of anxiety where I think like Sawyer, think I don’t need skin cancer, or a few thousand more freckles that will come and never go away after a day in the sun.
But rather than flip to decide what I should do, I go with the least responsible choice and close my eyes as I soak in the rays.
And damn, but maybe Celia wasn’t totally wrong. In some situations, being carefree isn’t half bad.
SIX
ADEN
This woman is a walking contradiction.
Nothing about her adds up.
Gorgeous face and body but no clue how to use them.
She’s lived the life of an adrenaline junkie, but freaks out around live bait.
Even now, looking at her soft shoulders as the sun turns them a light shade of pink, I have to wonder when was the last time that beautiful skin had even seen the sun.
I’m on my third beer, the boat rocking gently, a fishing pole between my legs and Jimmy Buffett’s “A Pirate Looks at 40” filtering through the speakers and I’m thinking thoughts that I should not be thinking about my uncle’s favorite little tenant.
I crush my empty beer can and chuck it into the garbage.