by Tawna Fenske
Captain Dreamboat
Tawna Fenske
Contents
About Captain Dreamboat
Also in the Ponderosa Resort Romantic Comedy Series
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Epilogue
15. Your exclusive peek at Snowbound Squeeze
Don’t Miss Out!
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Tawna Fenske
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
* * *
Text copyright © 2019 Tawna Fenske
All rights reserved.
* * *
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.
* * *
www.tawnafenske.com
* * *
Cover design by Craig Zagurski
Created with Vellum
For the volunteers. Whether you’re building parks or orphanages or a sticker collection for your kid’s teacher, your sacrifice does not go unnoticed. Thank you for making the world a better place.
About Captain Dreamboat
Jonathan Bracelyn pours his soul into saving the world, and he’s still nowhere near cancelling out the sins of dear ol’ dad. But when a medical crisis prompts Jon to toss his sister the ultimate lifeline, he’s forced to hang up his captain’s hat and hit pause on the one thing that makes him…well, him.
At least he has Blanka Pavlo’s heart-flooding smile to buoy his spirits. A brilliant scientist, she knows things can’t last with the do-gooder Bracelyn brother. Not even if he kisses like a dream and boasts biceps as hefty as his heart. Blanka’s learned the hard way how lonely life is in the shadow of a saint, so she’s giving the hottie hero a wide berth.
Except Jonathan sucks at self-care, so maybe she’ll lend a hand (and other tingly parts) to help him out. Soon, they’re bonding over awkward bubble baths and a disturbingly homely cat, while struggling to remember it’s all temporary. But the harder they brace for goodbye, the louder their hearts declare they’re already in too deep.
Also in the Ponderosa Resort Romantic Comedy Series
Studmuffin Santa
Chef Sugarlips
Sergeant Sexypants
Hottie Lumberjack
Stiff Suit
Mancandy Crush (novella)
Captain Dreamboat
Snowbound Squeeze (novella—coming Jan. 17!)
Dr. Hot Stuff (coming soon!)
Chapter 1
Jonathan
“For the love of Christ, put that down.”
I turn toward James’s voice with my arms full of heavy stereo gear, greeting my brother’s pained grimace with my cheeriest grin. “You wanted to sing ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ on the karaoke machine before we load up?”
James scowls, looking like a cross between a GQ model and a frustrated undertaker in his tuxedo for Bree’s wedding. “This is not your job,” he says.
My job, at least in my role as James’s brother, is to make the stuffy bastard smile. I shift the DJ’s controller in my arms and give him an obnoxious wink.
“You’re just worried I’ll end up with bigger muscles than you,” I reply, ignoring big brother’s orders to drop the bulky gear. “Then your hot girlfriend will realize you’re a pansy and leave you for me.”
Lily busts out laughing and hooks an elbow around James’s wholly impressive bicep. She’s the girlfriend, and so nuts about the guy she wouldn’t care if his muscles were grape-sized and covered in feathers.
Her covert ass-squeeze earns a smile from James, and I throw her a mental high-five. Mission accomplished.
“You wish, Sailor Boy.” Lily brushes a shock of red hair off her forehead. “Seriously, though, didn’t Bree hire like a zillion well-paid college kids to do the wedding cleanup?”
“I’m just helping out the DJ.” Okay, this sound board thing is heavy, but I refuse to put it down. “He’s got a bad back, so I offered to run this out to his van.”
James sighs. “Fine. But then knock it off and go mingle. It’s our duty to keep our sister’s guests entertained.”
My brother’s all about duty, but I guess I’ve got no room to talk. I shift the controller in my arms so I can throw James a mock salute before turning and heading the other way through the reception hall.
I’ve almost reached the door when my gaze lands on one of Bree’s friends. Blanka Pavlo sits at a corner table with her bare legs crossed beneath the floaty hem of a blue sundress that matches her eyes.
Her blond hair is swept into a fancy updo, and I nearly stumble at the sight of her. We met last month at a grade school career day Bree dragged me to, and I haven’t stopped thinking about her since. It’s the smile, I think. Broad and bright and completely unselfconscious, with an adorable gap between her front teeth.
I don’t believe in love at first sight, but I would glue my lips to a hotplate for five seconds of seeing her smile.
She must feel me staring, because she turns and meets my eyes. Her smile falters, and she blinks slowly. Twice, three times, like she’s telegraphing secret code. When her gaze shifts again, I realize who’s sitting beside her.
Oh.
Lady Isabella Blankenship, aka my brand-new sister. She’s white as the half-eaten wedding cake on her plate, and her finishing school posture has gone all wilted daisy.
Blanka cuts her gaze back to me and mouths one word.
Help.
I practically sprint, forgetting the weight of the gear in my arms. When I reach the table, I set down the controller and try to look casual.
“Ladies. Everything okay here?”
Blanka opens her mouth to answer, but Isabella beats her to it.
“I’m great! Everything’s fine! I’m having such a lovely time.”
There’s a faint sheen of sweat on her brow, and her expression’s much too cheery to be real.
One look at Blanka tells me it isn’t. She studies my sister like she’s deciding something, then looks back at me. “Izzy just fainted.”
“I most certainly did not!” My sister’s forcing that smile for all she’s worth. “I merely stumbled, that’s all.” She tries to throw in a casual hand-flip but ends up clocking Blanka in the chin.
Blanka ducks back and throws me a meaningful look. See?
“Oh, my goodness, I’m so sorry.” Isabella draws both hands to her mouth, tears glittering in her eyes. “I’m so clumsy sometimes. I apologize.”
Blanka puts an arm around my sister’s shoulders and rubs her arm. “Not a problem. But I’m worried about you.”
“Nonsense, I’m fine.”
I survey Isabella’s face, doing my best to figure out what’s wrong. I’m hardly an expert on her expressions, considering I met her last week. I never knew she existed until a month ago.
“Have you—uh—been enjoying the champagne?” I try.
Isabella stiffens and gives me a prim look. “I don’t consume alcohol.”
Right. She mentioned that when we met. “Are you still feeling dizzy?”
“I’m not dizzy at all.” She smooths down the stiff fabric of her skirt. “Just a touch of jetlag, nothing to worry about.”
“I
feel ya on the jetlag.” And I know damn well it doesn’t look like this. The flight from Isabella’s homeland in southern Europe is similar to travel times from here to the launch point for rescue missions I captain in the Mediterranean. Jetlag can suck the wind from your sails, but this is different. “You look pretty pale.”
I glance at Blanka, whose expression suggests she’s not buying the jetlag story, either. Damn, she’s beautiful. There’s something familiar about her, too. Like maybe we’ve crossed paths somewhere before we met in Central Oregon. It’s on the tip of my brain, but I can’t quite touch it.
My sister lurches to her feet. “I need to use the powder room.” Bracing herself on the wall, she starts to move.
“I’ll join you.” Blanka jumps up and offers Isabella a hand.
My sister gives her a feeble smile and waves her off. “I’m fine, really. I won’t be gone more than a few minutes.”
Blanka bites her lip. “I think it might be best if—”
“Please.” Isabella shoots her a pleading look. “I just need a bit of privacy.”
Hesitating, Blanka looks at me. I shrug, unsure how much to push.
“All right,” Blanka relents. “Just promise you’ll come right back here?”
“I swear,” Isabella says. “I’ll be five minutes, that’s all.”
“Okay.” Blanka watches her move down the hall on shaky legs. Isabella’s dark hair is pinned back in a twist, and her skin is pale against the pink and white of her dress.
The second she turns a corner, Blanka’s blue eyes swing back to me. “I saw her sitting alone and came to see if she was okay.” She’s whispering, and I lean close so I don’t miss anything. “Something seemed off. She’s acting dazed and a little slow.”
“I noticed the same thing.” And I’m trying not to notice how good Blanka smells. Something flowery, maybe lupine. The candy-sweet fragrance reminds me of the Alaska shores where I spent my Coast Guard years.
“She keeps saying she doesn’t want to be a burden,” Blanka continues. “That she doesn’t want to ruin Bree’s big day.”
“That sounds like her. When I picked her up at the airport, she wouldn’t stop apologizing for her flight being five minutes late. Wouldn’t let me carry her bag and got all red and flustered when I tried to address her as ‘your ladyship.’”
“That’s her official title?”
“Yeah, but she doesn’t want us to use it. Says she doesn’t want to cause trouble. That she just wants to blend in.”
Blanka frowns. “My father’s like that. Had a full-blown heart attack last year without telling a soul.”
“Your father,” I repeat, wondering why that’s pinging bells in my head. “What’s his—”
“Can I help with this?” Blanka interrupts, patting the side of the DJ’s controller.
Right. I’d forgotten about it. “I just need to run it out to the van. Won’t be more than two minutes.”
“Let me help.” Not waiting for an answer, she hoists up one end like it’s a sack of cotton balls.
“Damn, you’re strong.” I blurt the words before I remember that’s not a compliment women usually love, but Blanka just beams.
“I can bench one-eighty-nine,” she says. “Come on.”
I grab the other end, weirdly turned on by the flex of her forearms and the fact that she truly does not give a fuck what I think. She charges toward the door, pulling me with her as we head out into the sunlit parking lot. A gentle wind ripples off the mountains, smelling of snow and pinesap, and my heart curls into a purring ball as the breeze ruffles the fine blonde hairs around Blanka’s ears.
God, her ears. They’re like perfect pink seashells, with little pearl studs on the lobes.
It occurs to me I’ve lost my marbles if I’m turned on by a woman’s ears. Maybe I’ve spent too long at sea.
“I don’t want to leave Izzy alone long, so let’s hurry,” Blanka says as we approach the van emblazoned with the DJ’s logo.
“You call her Izzy?”
“She asked me to.” Blanka grabs the van’s door handle and shoves it open. “What do you call her?”
“Mostly ‘hey, you,’” I admit as we shove the equipment into the back of the van and close the door. “She suggested Izzy, but that feels too informal, so—”
“Gotcha.” Blanka smiles. “Bracelyn family avoidance.”
“Hey.”
Okay, she’s not wrong. Blanka’s a hydrology researcher at the US Geological Survey’s satellite lab where Lily works, so I’m betting James’s girlfriend has offered an earful about my brother’s closed-off nature. We’re polar opposites in most ways, but James and I do have that in common.
“Come on.” I start to walk briskly to the lodge, but Blanka kicks into a full-on jog. Impressive, considering her strappy heeled sandals. Man, those legs.
We’re both breathing heavy by the time we hit the doors, and I wonder if anyone thinks we slipped out for a quickie.
I like that thought way more than I should.
But the instant my gaze lands on Isabella sitting pale-faced in the corner, I throw a glass of ice on my libido. She looks worse than before.
“Damn.” Blanka grabs a bottle of fizzy water out of the tub next to the bar and makes a beeline for my sister.
I hurry after her, noticing how Isabella’s hands shake as she tries to lift her cake fork. She sees us approaching and forces the corners of her mouth into a smile.
“Hello,” she says with forced cheer. “You just missed the bouquet toss. Doesn’t Bree look beautiful?”
“Here.” Blanka shoves the water into my sister’s shaky palm. “How are you feeling?”
“Fantastic.” Isabella tries for a wide grin, but the paleness of her face lends it more of a Jack-o-lantern effect than an actual joy. She makes a valiant effort to unscrew the cap on the bottle before giving up. Blanka eases it from her grip and twists the top off.
“Thanks.” My sister takes the bottle back. “It’s such an honor to be invited to a family event like this. I know you all just met me, but—”
“How many fingers am I holding up?” I shove my hand into the space between us, earning a quirked brow from Blanka.
“Three, of course.” Isabella takes a sip of water, then wipes the cold bottle over her forehead.
Blanka drops the arched brow, then turns back to Izzy. “Are you feeling fatigued or confused or queasy or anything?”
She takes another sip of water and straightens in her seat. “Of course,” she says. “I’m still getting over jetlag. My ankles are swelling like crazy.”
She lifts the hem of her pink and white dress to show the tops of her ankles. Whoa, she’s not kidding. Those are some serious cankles.
I stop myself from blurting that aloud and comb my brain for some other test of mental faculties. Some way to figure out what’s going on with my sister.
Back in my Coast Guard days, my buddies would hammer each other with absurd questions to figure out who was most lucid after a night at the bar. Mostly we’d end up calling cabs, which may be what my sister needs.
“Why do ‘fat chance’ and ‘slim chance’ mean the same thing?” I try again.
Izzy blinks. “I beg your pardon?”
Blanka furrows her brow. “I’ve wondered the same thing. English is such a bizarre language.”
“That’s right, you speak seven languages.” Not that I memorized every detail about her during her career day presentation.
“Eight,” Blanka corrects, glancing back at my sister. “English colloquialisms are a challenge, though.”
Isabella’s eyes are jumping between Blanka and me, so maybe this is a good thing. A chance to watch how she tracks a conversation, if she’s clearheaded enough to participate.
“You mean like buttering someone up?” I offer, sifting through my brain for more idioms. “Or rubbing someone the wrong way?”
Hell. I had to pick two filthy-sounding phrases.
But Blanka doesn’t recoil, so sh
e must’ve missed the perv factor. “Actually, I’ve researched both of those at length,” she says. “The butter one has its origins in ancient India, where devoutly religious citizens would throw butter at statues of their gods to seek favor.”
“No kidding?” Damn, I learn something new every day.
“And the rubbing one,” she continues as I force myself not to think about rubbing any part of Blanka’s body. “That traces back to colonial America where wealthy homeowners would chastise servants for cleaning the floors incorrectly and leaving streaks.”
“I had no idea.” What I did know is that super-smart women are my catnip, which is making it hard to stay focused.
I glance back at Isabella, who’s making a valiant effort to follow along. Or to look like someone who’s following along.
“That’s—fascinating.” She offers a weak smile.
Blanka watches her warily, then glances at me. Once again, I swear she uses some sort of telepathy voodoo magic.
Should we keep going? Is this helping?
I nod once. Blanka bites her lip and continues.
“Okay,” she says. “Another one that gets me—why is it ‘a penny for your thoughts,’ but you ‘put your two cents in’? What happened to the other penny?”
“That’s a damn good question.” I rifle around in my brain to find something intelligent to contribute to the conversation. “I do know the ‘penny for your thoughts’ line traces back to Sir Thomas More’s Four Last Things from the early 1500s,” I offer, hoping Blanka’s at least a little impressed by the fact that I’ve pulled this historical tidbit out of thin air. “‘In such wise that, not without some note and reproach of such vagrant mind, other folk suddenly say to them, ‘A penny for your thought.’”
