Capsized

by Julie Cannon

  I shook my head and chuckled as I rounded the corner of my block. My house was the third one from the corner and the forest-green door my welcome mat. All the houses on the block had the same floor plan, with steps leading up to the front door, bay windows on the first and second floors, and a flat front on the third one. Our block stood out because every owner had painted their exterior a bold, bright color. The Stevenses’ place on the corner was blue, the gay guys’ house next to me a wonderful shade of gray, and mine was an eye-popping red. The colors continued down the street, and all of us had painted our trim a blistering white.

  I’d bought my place for the location and potential—two of the major things I was looking for. I’d renovated it from top to bottom, and next to Adventures, it was my sanctuary from the stress of daily life. When the weather prevented me from sailing I’d often close the door behind me on a Friday evening and not open it again until seven a.m. Monday morning.

  I glanced at my watch as I slid my key into the lock. Just enough time to toss something on the grill, enjoy a glass or two of wine, and prepare for another crazy week at Alissa Cooper Advertising. But I was Alissa Cooper, and I absolutely loved my job.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Bert

  I couldn’t stop looking at the woman to my right as she too was obviously picking up a few things in the market. I did a double-take because she looked like Charlize Theron. She was maybe an inch or two shorter than my own five foot nine inches, with more than a few gray strands scattered in her long blond hair. Women who wore their age and experience proudly were just plain sexy. And this woman was. She hadn’t said or done anything, but she oozed sensuality. She obviously had stopped by the market on her way home from work because she was wearing a perfectly tailored expensive business suit and shoes that made her legs look very long.

  But what the hell did I know? I’m a fisherman, and my wardrobe consists of jeans, skid-resistant boots, and a flannel shirt, all under a bright-orange head-to-toe slicker. What I did recognize was a silver Breitling watch circled her left wrist. I’m a bit of a watch snob, and for some reason the large, expensive, yet practical watch was one of the sexiest things I’d ever seen. Jeez, if an expensive watch on a beautiful woman’s wrist was all it took to get my motor running, I really needed to get out more.

  The cashier pulled me out of my fantasy when she told me my total. I reached for my credit card in my back pocket, and a jolt of panic shot through me when my hand didn’t feel the familiar stiff card. Shit, where was it? Just as quickly I remembered that I’d last used it at the harbor gas pumps and had probably left it there. I quickly searched my other pockets and came up with

  a few crumpled worn bills. I was four dollars and eighty-two cents short.

  “Shit, I left my card at the harbor office,” I said, completely embarrassed. “Can you hold this? I’ll be back in ten minutes to pay for it.” Before the cashier had a chance to answer, the woman I’d been ogling spoke.

  “I’ll get it.”

  Her voice was smooth and a tingle ran down my spine. Her eyes were crystal blue, the color of the Caribbean. A small bump on her nose was the only imperfection on her smooth, tan face.

  “Thank you, but you don’t have to do that. I’ll just come back,” I said politely. Even though I owned a commercial fishing boat, employed a crew of six men, and spent ninety percent of my time with them fishing the waters off the coast, my mother had raised me with manners. And more importantly, I still used them, especially in front of a beautiful woman. The woman smiled and my mouth went suddenly very dry.

  “Consider it my public service for the day.” She pulled a five-dollar bill out of her wallet and handed it to the cashier.

  “Thank you,” I managed to reply and was rewarded with another dazzling smile. The woman gathered her bags and started to leave, but I couldn’t let her get away.

  “Can I buy you a cup of coffee to thank you?” God, did that ever sound like a pick-up line. But then again I was a little out of practice. No, I was a lot out of practice. The woman laughed, and I thought I’d melt right there on the floor in the front of her.

  “You don’t have any money.” She grinned at me this time.

  “We can go to the Port Café. We have to pass right by where I left my card when I paid for my gas.” I hoped I didn’t sound as desperate as I felt, or as lame.

  The woman’s eyebrows quirked, which I thought was really cute. “No, really,” I said quickly. “I just docked and paid for my gas and came in to pick up a few things.” My explanation sounded stupid, but it was the truth.

  I could almost hear her weigh her choices, which probably consisted of having a drink with me or enjoying dinner with a beautiful, sophisticated woman, not one in faded jeans and a Henley. The only thing I had going for me at this instant was that my shirt brought out the green in my eyes, or so I’d been told.

  “It’s just coffee,” I said, filling the awkward silence. Then I said something really stupid. “I’m not asking you to have a baby with me.” Fortunately she must like stupid because she laughed.

  “All right,” she said, and I had to fight to not let my mouth drop open. I have a lot of confidence, but even I thought this woman was a long shot.

  I extended my hand. “Bert Coughlin.”

  She took it, her handshake firm and electric. “Alissa Cooper.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Alissa

  I watched Bert’s reaction to my acceptance. Bert? What an odd name. I’d have to ask about that later. It hadn’t taken me long to answer her invitation. My choices for tonight consisted of going home to my empty house and spending the evening working on the papers I’d jammed in my briefcase or sitting across from a woman who, for some odd reason, I found interesting. It had been too long since I just relaxed and enjoyed myself. I’d had an absolutely shitty day, and the thought of another night of numbers and reports suddenly didn’t appeal to me very much.

  After Ariel, I didn’t trust any woman, but it wasn’t like Bert and I would talk about profit-and-loss statements, my current projects, or my client list. Like I’d discuss that with anyone ever again. And when Bert had unequivocally stated “It’s just coffee. I’m not asking you to have a baby with me,” that clinched it. I liked her sense of humor, or what I’d seen of it so far, and she was nothing like any woman I’d ever met. And I mean NOTHING. I don’t consider myself a social snob, but most people hang out with the people they work with or play with. The former, I didn’t do. I had difficulty maintaining boss-employee distance, especially when it came to discipline, so I tried not to tempt fate. The latter took me to the gym, the symphony, dinner with a few close friends, and my boat. Bert was nowhere in that picture.

  Her hands were rough and callused, and she had more than a few lines around her eyes. Neither was unattractive, and suddenly I was very curious about the origin of both. She was a little taller than I was, her jeans looked as comfortable as my favorite pair, and the color of her shirt reflected her brilliant green eyes.

  Don’t think like that, I told myself. This is coffee, nothing else, and certainly not a hookup. It had been a long time since I’d gotten any, other than what I gave myself, but this was not going there. I wasn’t in the mood and knew I wouldn’t get in the mood either after the day I’d had. Some of my friends can go home after a lousy day and leave their office drama at their front door. Sherrie had a knockout husband who couldn’t keep his hands off her, Joanne and Stephanie had two kids, and Michelle had just had a baby. No sex for her for the next six weeks, per doctors’ orders. I’ve often thought that way back in history some exhausted woman had begged her doctor to tell her husband that just so she could get some sleep. Both Michelle and my sisters concurred with my hypothesis.

  I stowed my few groceries in the trunk of my car, and Bert and I walked to the office where you paid for gas. She hadn’t lied, using the “I forgot my wallet can I go get it and buy you a drink” line, which was a relief. The cashier greeted her by name and handed her t
he AWOL card before she had a chance to ask. The harbor hadn’t yet adopted the pay-at-the-pump, and everyone from the smallest personal craft to the largest fishing boat had to go inside and pay. It was a great marketing strategy to get people into the store.

  We had a short walk to the Port Café and made small talk, not getting into anything heavy or controversial, which was refreshing. Against my better judgment I found myself wanting to know more about Bert—what she did for a living, how often she was on the water, what her lips tasted like. Holy shit, where had that come from? I’d just met the woman and I was thinking about that? I really needed to get out more—or stay in more, and definitely not alone.

  The cafe was a quaint restaurant that had been here on the dock forever, or so the locals said. I’d been inside once or twice, but my local haunt was the Harbor Club, as upscale as its name implied. “The Club,” as it was known, was open only to members of the yacht club, where everyone was greeted by name when they entered. It had over four hundred members and associate members, and in the beginning I was impressed and then realized that, with the hefty membership fee and annual dues, they should know everyone by name.

  The bell over the door dinged when Bert pulled it open. The smell of something delicious on the barbecue and fresh-baked pie greeted me when I stepped inside. The place was decorated in a nautical theme, as it should be right next to the water, but had charm that made it feel authentic, something you’d find inside one of the small bungalows a few blocks away. I wasn’t hungry in the slightest, or at least I wasn’t until a waitress carrying a plate of delicious-looking shrimp passed in front of me. I didn’t know exactly what time it was, but I’d left work a little after four thirty, then had a thirty-minute commute, the stop at the market, and the walk to pick up Bert’s credit card, so it had to have been around six. If coffee went well, maybe we could have dinner. But only because my mouth was watering from the delicious smells coming from the kitchen. I mean a girl’s gotta eat, right?

  *

  Bert

  As we strode to the café I caught the scent of Alissa’s perfume. It was fresh, not heavy, and it smelled expensive. Like I know what expensive smells like. I bought my shampoo and lotion at Walgreens, maybe Target if I needed a bunch of other things. I had to walk quickly to keep up with her, I guess an offshoot of whatever she did that necessitated her power suit and her quick, no-nonsense stride. She kept her head up, didn’t slouch or stoop to try to be something she wasn’t. That kind of confidence was just flat-out sexy. It said I know who I am and what I am, and I’m not afraid of it. If you are, your loss. I opened the door and Alissa stepped inside.

  “Bert, we haven’t seen you in ages,” Clarisse said a second after we entered. The only way I can adequately describe Clarisse is to say she was buxom, had big hair—and I mean BIG hair—and she could have been Anna Nicole Smith’s twin sister. Her smile filled her face and her laugh was contagious. She rarely met a customer she didn’t like. I’d known Clarisse all my life. This was her place, and the café was a staple of Colton Harbor. When I used to come in with my dad she was larger than life, and the first few times I was afraid of her. Of course I was four or five years old at the time, and a woman who occupied as much space as Clarisse, with her boobs, hair, and gregarious personality, would scare any little kid.

  “Good to see you too, Clarisse. How’s life?”

  “Making money and making friends,” she answered. If I had a dollar for every time I heard that phrase, my boat would be paid for. If only. I caught Clarisse checking out Alissa, then looking to me with a question in her eyes before she winked at me.

  “We’re just going to have a something to drink,” I said, informing Clarisse this was just a friendly chat, not the prelude to something more.

  She grabbed the menus and stated, “I’ll put you in the back. It’s a little quieter there.”

  I motioned for Alissa to go ahead, again out of politeness, but it also gave me the opportunity to check out her backside. I’d figured out a long time ago why men always let women go first. It had probably started hundreds of years ago so they could check out the ladies’ asses without getting their faces slapped. More than likely it started in England, where the definition of gentleman was invented. It was rude to blatantly ogle women, but if you held the door and let them go first, not only did you get to be close to them, but you could smell their perfume or shampoo as they walked by, with the added benefit of having an unobstructed view of their ass. Thank God for gentlemen and manners, I thought as I followed Alissa to our table.

  Clarisse kept up a running conversation with Alissa, who seemed to be oblivious to the men watching her cross the room and the not-so-gentlemen turning their heads for an additional look when she passed them. I couldn’t blame them and enjoyed the view.

  Clarisse set menus on the table in front of us and said, “Just in case something to drink turns into dinner.” She winked at me and I felt myself blush. “I’ll send Marcus right over.” And with that, she turned and walked away.

  “She’s quite the character,” Alissa commented.

  “Yes, she is.” And before I could say anything more, Marcus arrived.

  “Ladies, how are you this evening?” He turned to Alissa. “My name is Marcus and I’ll be taking care of you tonight.” He then turned to me. “Bert, good to see you again. How long has it been? A month, two?” Marcus frowned as he apparently tried to remember the last time I was in. It had been a long time, but the actual length really didn’t matter.

  “It’s been a while, Marcus. How are you?”

  “I’m fine. Had a stomach bug last week, but Stephen took good care of me and I’m back on my feet.”

  “Stephen is Marcus’s boyfriend,” I told Alissa.

  “You’ve been gone too long, Bert. You missed the big announcement. We’re engaged. He’s the one.” He had a dreamy look in his eyes as he raised and lowered his dark eyebrows a few times.

  “My apologies and congratulations, to you and Stephen, Marcus.”

  “How long have you two been together?” Alissa asked pleasantly, surprising me by asking.

  “Fourteen months,” Marcus answered proudly.

  “Then I second the congratulations. When’s the big day?” Again she surprised me.

  “We haven’t set a date yet, but probably in the fall. Enough about me though. Clarisse will skin me if I don’t stop chattering and take your order,” he said, pen and pad in hand like a messenger ready to carry an important dispatch behind enemy lines.

  “I’ll have decaf,” Alissa said.

  “Leaded for me, Marcus. Thanks.”

  “Anything to snack on? The calamari is fresh and out of this world,” he said with a flair.

  I looked at Alissa, my expression saying “up to you.” She declined, and I sent Marcus on his way to get our coffees.

  “Obviously you come here often,” Alissa observed, leaning back in the booth.

  “What was your first clue?” I discovered that I liked to tease her. “Actually I live not far from here.” I remained vague, not wanting to give this strange yet beautiful woman anything more specific. I’d made that mistake once and it wasn’t pretty. Can you say Shawna stalker? “I don’t cook much. It’s easier to come in here, friendlier too.” I lived alone, and as much as I liked myself, my company got a little boring sometimes. And lonely. “What about you?”

  “Same,” she answered as Marcus set two cups of steaming hot coffee down in front of us, then discreetly disappeared. She reached for the sugar bowl and poured four heaping spoons into her cup. Holy cow. My lips puckered at all that sweetness. Alissa must have noticed my expression.

  “I never learned to like black coffee,” she said, her spoon tinking against the side of the mug. “I had to drink it in college to stay awake and just kept adding sugar until I could stand it. Not the healthiest thing in my diet, I admit. Too many years to try to reprogram my taste buds, and too old to try.”

  I liked Alissa. She had a good sense of hum
or and didn’t seem to mind poking fun at herself. And she’d talked to Marcus. Too many people ignored their server, and that was just rude. That and Marcus was a friend of mine.

  “I guess I could say the same. Too many years of drinking sludge to stop now. My body would probably rebel from the sheer shock without it.”

  “What do you do that sludge is a mainstay of your daily intake?”

  Here it was. The inevitable “what do you do” question. Why didn’t get-to-know-you questions start off with topics like the latest political race or the state of the economy or the losing streak of the Toronto Blue Jays? I had an instant to decide to tell the truth or make something up. Oddly enough I took the former.

  “I’m a fisherman.”

  Alissa looked puzzled. “A fisherman? Like a charter boat or commercial?”

  That was the third time Alissa had surprised me. No one ever even thought of commercial fishing. “Commercial.”

  “Really? I know nothing about commercial fishing. Tell me about it. How big is your boat, what do you fish for?”

  “I have a one hundred, fifty-three-foot schooner with twin Cat 353 engines rated at eight hundred and fifty total horsepower with thirty-eight thousand gallons of fuel capacity and ten thousand gallons of water. I carry a crew of six.” Usually at this point eyes glazed over.

  “Wow,” Alissa said, her expression copying the awe in her voice. “I beg your pardon, Captain. You have a ship, not a boat.”