“Prove it,” she said.
“How would I do that?”
“Have sex with me. You said you don’t take sex lightly. Step outside your comfort zone and sleep with me in a completely casual way.”
His cock hardened at the wicked challenge in her eyes. Any kind of sex with Chrissie sounded good to him, he couldn’t deny it.
She read that truth in his expression. And in the bulge in his pants, as she leaned against him. “You want to. I know that.”
“I want to.” He said it with one hundred percent certainty. “More than I’ve ever wanted anything, possibly including my medical degree. But I can wait.”
“Can you?” She licked her lips. “I guess we’ll see about that.” With a flick of her hips against his engorged erection, she turned to go.
He followed her out of the lighthouse, fumbling for the rough concrete steps in the twilight darkness. It was almost as challenging as finding his footing with Chrissie. He might fall on his face in the process.
But he could promise himself one thing. He’d give it his all. The rest would be up to her.
The next day, Ian drove Bo to the deepwater harbor with a duffel bag stuffed with extra clothes and gear, his laptop, extra peanut butter granola bars, and a Nintendo Switch tucked into a Ziploc bag.
Elinor had sent a complete first aid kit and extra bottles of all the vitamins and supplements Bo took. But he’d conveniently left all that behind, and Ian hadn’t objected. The Desperado was fully equipped with medical supplies, and how many vitamins could a kid take on a three-week fishing trip?
Bo was so excited he couldn’t even sit still. He perched on his knees on the passenger seat and watched each storefront on the boardwalk slide past. “You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to take notes for a screenplay every day. It’s like Into the Wild, except on a boat. Into the Waves. As soon as I get back I’ll start writing it.”
“You do know that the kid in Into the Wild died, right?”
He pulled into the long-term parking lot set aside for the deep harbor fishing vessels. Bo hopped out and grabbed his duffel bag. The Desperado hummed with activity as the crew busied themselves on deck with last-minute gear checks. Even more fishermen were gathered on the float alongside the trawler. Ian spotted Tristan chatting with Old Crow.
He hadn’t seen the old guy since he’d delivered his diagnosis of trigeminal neuralgia. Jasmine had reported that he was in fact taking the medication he’d prescribed, but he hadn’t come in for a follow-up appointment yet. Apparently money was always an issue for Old Crow.
Bo slung his duffel bag over his shoulder. “Maybe you shouldn’t mention anything about Into the Wild to Mom. Just tell her I’m going to turn this whole experience into a movie, or maybe a TV series. It’ll be like a soap opera, except on a fishing boat.”
“I’ll tell her.” They’d agreed that Ian would be on point to communicate with Elinor, since Bo didn’t know how much time or cell service he would have. Ian had already set up a plan with Lucas Holt, the harbormaster, to get thorough updates without bothering the Desperado crew. “I’m also going to tell her that you’re going to brush your teeth twice a day—”
“Once,” Bo corrected.
Ian dug out the list that Elinor had sent him and scanned it. “She says twice. And don’t forget your vitamin C, so you don’t get scurvy.”
“I’m not going to get scurvy!” Bo rolled his eyes and adjusted his grip on the fishing boots under his arm. “Was your mother like this? For fuck’s sake. What else is on there? Write my name on my underwear so no one steals it? This isn’t camp.”
Ian glanced again at the list and sure enough, there was a mention of underwear. He balled up the list and shoved it in his pocket. “I can sum up the rest. Do what the captain says, work hard, and soak it all in. Have the experience of a lifetime.”
Bo’s face lit up in a beaming smile. “You’re the bomb, Uncle Ian. No wonder you’ve always been my favorite Finnegan.” He hurtled himself against Ian for a quick hug—Ian barely had time to return it before he was spinning toward the ramp. “I’m fine from here.”
“Got it. Safe travels, Bo. See you in a few weeks.”
The boy ran toward the ramp with barely a wave at him. Ian propped his butt against his Mercedes and watched as Bo bounded on board. Tristan greeted him kindly and directed him inside the cabin, no doubt to stow his gear.
As Ian watched from his vantage point in the parking lot, Old Crow stooped down to release the ropes keeping the Desperado tied up. He tossed the ends onboard for a crew member to tie up, then stepped back as the boat chugged away from its slip. Slow and steady, so as not to churn up a wake that would disturb the other boats.
An empty feeling stole through him. He’d gotten so used to Bo’s unpredictable but always entertaining presence. His rented house was going to feel so lonely.
Of course it would be the perfect time to hole up with Chrissie on a cold winter night.
Not yet. Be patient.
Old Crow spotted Ian and waved at him in a “hold up” gesture.
Odd place for a neurological consult, but that was Lost Harbor for you. He waited while the old fisherman made his way up the ramp and across the parking lot.
“How are you, Old Crow?”
They shook hands. The older man wore an engineer’s cap embroidered with porcupine quills.
“Good enough, good enough.”
Ian waited for him to continue. Old Crow wouldn’t have chased him down if he didn’t have something he wanted to say. But he tended to take his time, Ian had noticed. There was no point in rushing him.
Sure enough, after about a minute of silence, Old Crow spoke again. “Been taking those drugs.”
“And? Do they seem to be helping?”
He didn’t answer that directly.
“I keep having dreams. You ever have dreams that seem like they’re trying to tell you something?”
Ian rarely bothered to remember his dreams. To him, they were the product of random firings of neurons, nothing more. “No. I can’t say I have.”
“That’s a shame.” Old Crow gave him a pitying look, as if he was the one facing degenerative neuralgia.
“What are these dreams about?”
“Lots of things. Birds. My old ma turned up, and she’s been dead twenty years. Fish. Halibut on hooks.”
He fixed his black eyes on Ian, as if waiting for some kind of dream interpretation.
“You make your living fishing, so that makes sense.” Which was about all that Ian could come up with.
“Huh.” Old Crow gave a disappointed grunt.
“Look, I’m not a dream analyst, I’m a neurosurgeon. If the medication isn’t working, you have other options.”
“What options?”
“Well, surgery. Trigeminal neuralgia surgery is extremely effective. How’s the pain?”
Old Crow shrugged and tucked his thumbs in his pockets. “The fishing life is a tough one. I’m surprised I’ve survived this long.”
Jasmine had predicted he’d say something like that. If Old Crow wasn’t denying he was in pain, most likely he was.
Ian thought about the man’s dream about a hooked halibut. Hooks through the flesh were painful. Maybe he was saying in his cryptic way that the medication wasn’t working.
“I want you to make another appointment as soon as possible so I can explain your options in more detail. I’ll have the hospital call you.”
The older man tracked an eagle as it alighted on the railing nearby. “Buy you a drink at the saloon?”
“It’s eight-fifteen in the morning.” Not to mention the fact that Old Crow’s unpaid tab was legendary.
“It’s all right. Toni’s usually there by eight. They have coffee,” he added quickly. “Liquor doesn’t kick in until ten.”
“How about this. I’ll buy you a coffee and you agree to come in for another appointment.”
“Add some whiskey to that coffee and we might have a bargain.�
��
With that, they headed for the Olde Salt. Doctoring in Lost Harbor was an adventure, Ian thought. Maybe he was starting to get the hang of it.
Twenty-Four
“Grendel,” Chrissie hissed to Jessica, who’d claimed the pencil and the role of official stenographer. “The monster that Beowulf slayed. That’s easy.”
“You don’t have to rub it in,” Jessica grumbled. “I don’t think the Lost Harbor school system covered stuff like that.”
She scribbled Grendel on the first line.
“That’s what you have me for,” Chrissie said smugly. “Right?”
“Aren’t we supposed to discuss it between the four of us?”
“What’s to discuss? Does anyone disagree?”
Toni dipped a French fry in ketchup, while Maya took a sip of her Cabernet. Neither one showed any interest in the weekly trivia contest going on around them at Gretel’s Café. It was a BYO whatever-you-want event. Toni had brought them all dinner from the Burger Queen, while Maya had sprung for a bottle of wine.
“Nope,” Toni said.
Maya shook her head too. “Grendel. Mark it down, baby. Boom. Did we win yet?”
Jessica frowned at her in reproof. “We can’t make Chrissie do all the work here.”
“Why not? Isn’t that why we came? We’ve never done Trivia Night before. We’re like the sleeper table. No one’s going to see us coming.” Toni hummed the theme of Jaws.
Chrissie blocked them out and craned her neck to hear the next question from the emcee, who was operating from the small stage where musical acts sometimes performed. He was a skinny kid with dark brown skin and wire-rimmed glasses, and he was coming up with some fun questions. All of the tables were full; apparently Trivia Night was one of the extremely popular new ideas Gretel had brought to Lost Harbor.
She hadn’t exercised her brain—that warehouse of random bits of information—like this for a while. It was the perfect activity to distract herself from thinking about Ian.
“Next question,” the emcee intoned into the microphone. “Name the blood disorder that inspired the myth of vampires.”
“Are vampires a myth?” Jessica tapped her finger on her chin. “Are we sure about that? Can I object to the question?”
“Porphyria,” Chrissie told her. “P. O. R.—”
“You don’t have to spell it out, jeez. I’m sure they’ll accept a misspelled answer.”
“Just do what Chrissie says.” Toni took a bite of her burger. “I want to win that free night at the Aurora Lodge.”
“You want to win? At this rate only Chrissie’s going. And maybe a certain medical professional.”
Jessica smiled smugly as she wrote “Porfyria” on the trivia form. Chrissie bit her tongue to keep from pointing out that the “f” was incorrect.
Maya took a French fry from the basket in the middle of their table. “Yes, Chrissie, got anything to say about you and the hot doctor?”
“Nope.” She looked away from her friends, toward the coffee counter. Gretel was perched on it like an elf, one leg crossed over the other, her iPhone held up to take pictures of the scene. If there was anyone here she wished she could talk to about Ian, it was Gretel. But the café owner had been busy all night.
“Honestly, I wish there was something to say.” She grabbed the nearest glass of wine and took a sip.
“Hey,” Maya objected. “You said you weren’t drinking tonight. That one’s mine.”
“That was before Ian came up. Where’s the bottle? I’ll pour you a new glass.”
“That’s all right.” Maya waved at the glass. “It’s all yours. You look like you could use it. Is the neurosurgeon getting on your nerves?”
Toni chuckled and high-fived Maya.
“Yes, he is,” Chrissie said. “The wrong nerves. Not the ones that feel good.”
“Aww, really?” Jessica touched her hand in sympathy. “I thought you two would be blissfully in love by now. You’re perfect for each other.”
Chrissie snorted, then blotted her mouth with a napkin. Of course she’d blown droplets of wine out of her nose. That was how she rolled. Messy AF. “That’s ridiculous.”
“No, it’s not. I even asked my crystal. Strong yes.”
Chrissie rolled her eyes and turned to Maya. The last thing she needed right now was advice from a crystal. “You’re a logical person.”
“For the most part.”
“Then maybe you can help me understand Ian’s reasoning. He says he wants me—sexually, I mean. But he doesn’t want to have sex with me. Explain that!”
“I can’t explain that. Because I’m sure it’s not remotely true,” Maya said calmly.
“He could have had me down on the floor of the lighthouse in the blink of an eye. Instead he told me that wasn’t what he wanted.”
“First of all…that’s just gross,” Toni interjected. “And I made out with Ralphie after hours in the Olde Salt once. After I’d mopped the floors, but still.”
“I don’t necessarily mean literally.” Chrissie shushed everyone as the emcee announced the next trivia question.
“What band from the eighties wrote a song inspired by Rosanna Arquette?”
“Toto,” she told Jessica, almost absent-mindedly.
Toni flicked her on the arm. “I would have gotten that one if you just gave someone else a chance once in a while.”
“Oops. Sorry.”
“Nah, forget it.” She sat back and concentrated on her burger. “I’m sure it was just a fluke. You keep going, you’re killing it.”
“T-o-t-o.” Jessica drew out the word as she wrote. “Hopefully I got the spelling right on this one.” She shot Chrissie a pointed look. “Now, you were saying, about the gross floor of the lighthouse?”
“Yes. It’s not that gross. And we were wearing winter gear. It would have been fine. Did you guys know that the lighthouse used to be kind of a lovers’ meeting place back in the old days?”
They all shook their heads except for Toni. “You know, I think I heard someone talking about that at the bar. I thought it was kind of romantic. Remember when your grandpa let us use it for our secret clubhouse?”
Maya snapped her fingers. “Yes! Those slumber parties were the best. Remember when we stayed up all night because the damn place had no blackout curtains and it was the middle of summer?”
Chrissie sighed as the memories came flooding back. “That was so much fun. I was so mad at my grandfather when he claimed it for himself right after that. You know, it’s really a lovely space. It would make a great…I don’t know, private retreat or something.”
Toni scoffed. “Private retreat, is that code for a fuck pad?”
“Yes. But you don’t have to be so crude about it.” Her laughter died away. “Although I was. I came right out and asked Ian if we were going to fuck. That’s when things changed.”
Jessica exchanged a knowing glance with Maya. Her golden eyes shone with her own special brand of sympathy. “Now it’s all making sense.”
“It is?”
“Yes,” Maya agree. “You asked Dr. Ian Finnegan if he wanted to fuck on the floor of an abandoned lighthouse and now you’re wondering why he said no?”
Chrissie dropped her head into her hands. “When you put it that way… But actually he didn’t say no. For the record.”
“What did he say?” All her friends leaned forward to hear the answer.
“That he’s not one for casual sex. That he could wait.”
“There it is.” Maya pointed a triumphant finger at her. “He said what he wants. But all you can hear is rejection. That’s a you problem. You’re the one tripping.”
Chrissie picked up her head to glare at Maya, then dropped it again with a groan. “You’re right. I screwed it up. Big shocker. Of course it’s a me problem. Lord knows I have enough of those.”
“Oh, give it up already,” Maya said briskly.
Peering from between her fingers, she saw that Maya was completely serious, and that h
er other friends were nodding in agreement. “Excuse me?”
“You’re a grown woman. Ian’s a grown man. He’s saying he wants something real with you. Unless you pushed him off the bluff, that’s still an option. Sounds like the choice is yours. So what are you complaining about? If you just want someone to bone, Ralphie should be back in a few weeks.”
“Can confirm,” Toni said. “He just shipped out with Tris, but he’ll be back. I’m keeping my distance, so you can go for it if you want.”
“I’m not interested in Ralphie Reed,” Chrissie said through gritted teeth. Ralphie had been a town heartthrob since before he hit puberty, but she’d never gone for the dreamboat type.
“There’s always Tristan,” Jessica murmured.
“No.” Toni cut that off right away. “Tristan’s finally getting over his divorce. I already declared him off limits.”
“Don’t worry, Tristan’s like a brother to me now. He even told me the same thing. He said I’m like another, less bossy, sister.” She gave Toni a pointed glare.
Toni shrugged off her insult. “If there’s one thing Lost Harbor has plenty of, it’s men. Fishermen, bearded men, young men, men with farms, men with tools, men who like beer, men with cute Scottish accents…”
Maya sat up straight. “Alastair Dougal is back?”
Toni colored slightly—an unusual sight for sure. She was usually the picture of cool confidence. “He might have stopped in at the Olde Salt the other night. Apparently he’s tired of New York, and his restaurant fired him because he took too much time off to come here.”
“Who’s Alastair Dougal?” Chrissie asked curiously. She’d never heard Toni mention him before—and definitely not with that self-conscious expression.
“It’s a long story.” Maya waved her hand to dismiss the topic. “I’m declaring him off-limits too.”
Chrissie started to ask why, then caught Maya’s eye and subsided. The reason was sitting right next to her, plucking another French fry off the plate. She shifted the subject. “Anyway, it’s not that I’m looking for a man. That’s not why I’m here. And it’s not like I’m dying for some casual, meaningless sex.”
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