“You don’t like the name of my boat?”
“Why are boats always named after women?”
“Because they’re run by men.”
She gasps and Jenkins coughs into his gin.
“Are you Mr. Hurtado’s nephew?”
I jerk at the mention of my uncle, knowing she must be from the bank. “Depends. Who the hell are you?”
She licks a set of perfectly fat lips and stares at my neck, dark, full lashes sprawling out against pale skin that’s peppered with freckles. “I’m . . .” Throat clearing and she juts out her chin. “I’m Celia Forrester.”
Celia Forrester.
I know that name.
All my muscles release their tension. “You live in number four.”
I wouldn’t have thought it possible but her eyes get even wider. “Yes, number four.”
“You’re back in town.”
“Yes.” She clears her throat and her eyes drop to my chest. “The key was supposed to be under a pot—”
“Had the locks changed after the break-in.”
Those big orbs dart back to my face. “Break-in?”
“Yeah, I left you a message about it, but your voicemail said you were paragliding in New Zealand.”
She chews on her thick lower lip, then nods. “Can I get the—wait, you left me a message?”
“That’s what I said. Shit, woman, this isn’t rocket science.” I laugh and take a swig off my beer. “You’re Celia Forrester.”
“I’m Celia.”
Is she fucking for real? “You got a drug problem, freckles?”
She cringes. “No! I do not have a drug problem. What did you call me?”
“Jesus, you two,” Jenkins mumbles and slurps on his gin. “Even I know who you are, honey. Cal has a picture of the two of you inside.”
I want to kick Jenkins for sharing that tidbit. I should’ve sent the photo to Cal along with his old watch and his lucky hat that he left behind, but I didn’t want to get rid of it. It’s not just because the image is of my uncle smiling bigger than I’ve ever seen with my own two eyes, but it’s the woman in the photo too. The wind tossing all her long hair, sun-kissed skin that highlights the freckles on her nose and shoulders, and the kind of smile that reminds me why I fought hard for this country. To protect the kind of carefree beauty in that photo.
But looking at her now, I never would’ve recognized her as the woman in the picture. Gone is that relaxed and lighthearted smile. Sure she’s still good-looking, but in more of an uptight kind of way. Her hair is much shorter, just touching her shoulders, but just as wild, and her body language seems . . . constipated.
“All I need is a key and I’ll be out of your hair.”
“Well, come on.” I jerk my head for her to come aboard.
She steps closer to the boat and as if she forgot she’s over water her body locks up and she sways backward.
“Uh . . .” She studies the space between the dock and the platform off the back. “How do—”
“Here.” I hold out my hand and she stares at it like it’s a dead fish. There’s still some blood and scales under my nails from cleaning the dorado. “I ain’t gonna bite.”
She gives me a dull look.
“Take those fuckin’ shoes off.” Jenkins points to her feet with his drink in hand. “If anything will get you wet out here it’s them high heels.”
She kicks off her shoes and her toenails are painted a shade so light it matches the color of her pale feet. She reaches for my hand and it feels so small in my palm. I pull her on board with more force than she was expecting and she crashes into my chest. She tilts her head back to look at me and blasts me with the full force of her green eyes. Wide, a little scared, and fuckin’ gorgeous. Her full lips part and the wind tosses her hair across her face.
I make no attempt to step back but look down at her and wait for her reaction, because unnerving this girl is highly entertaining.
As if she can read my mind her eyes narrow and she wiggles out of my arms and wrinkles her nose. “What is that smell?”
“That, freckles, is the smell of fish guts and a hard day’s work.”
She pinches her nose between her fingers.
I nod to the grill, trying not to smile. “You hungry? We’ve got plenty.”
“Oh God, no.” She seems to catch herself for being so blunt and drops her hand from her face. “I mean, thanks, but I’m good.”
“You sure?” Jenkins grins wide showing off all six of his teeth. “Colt here grills a good filet.”
She frowns and the palm of her hand goes to her stomach. “Oh . . . yeah, no I really, I can’t.”
“Why not?” I don’t really care, but I’m still smiling because I like watching her scramble for an excuse.
“I, a . . .” She juts out her chin. “I’m a vegetarian.”
“Is that right?”
“Can’t no one live off plants.” Jenkins runs his clear eye up and down Celia’s body. “A woman needs protein to grow dem babies.”
“He’s right.” Leaning back against the outrigger I shrug. “Can’t make babies without takin’ in some meat.” I wink.
Her eyes pop wide and a blush overtakes her fair skin. “If I could just get the key I’ll let you two get back to . . . whatever it is you do.”
“Suit yourself.” I head into the cabin and the soft sound of her feet padding along the floor follows behind me.
So this is my uncle Cal’s favorite tenant, Celia Forrester.
Funny . . . I don’t know what I expected when and if I finally met the woman, but I know this hoity-toity girl is not it.
SAWYER
What is it about California that grows the most attractive men?
I was expecting Cal’s nephew to be, I don’t know, less consuming. This guy takes up space and that has very little to do with his size. His cocky smile and confident demeanor seems to absorb all the air in the atmosphere.
Thankfully he’s kind of a dick so it’s not hard to pull my eyes away from the way his pale-blue shirt hugs his wide chest. Like Brice, Aden is tan but in a more unpolished way that screams of long days spent outdoors. My goal is to keep my gaze to the floor, but like a magnet my eyes are pulled down his abdomen to a narrow waist and thick muscular thighs encased in faded jeans, worn out in parts and spattered with what looks like blood. I shake off a fantasy involving me, those jeans, a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, and my stain-stick. I dip my gaze to avoid staring only to discover he’s wearing brown leather flip-flops and even his feet are attractive. My stomach is antsy, flipping and tripping all over itself. Rather than a quarter to assist me in faking Celia I think a bottle of Pepto would’ve been more helpful.
A framed photo gets shoved into my face and because I’m staring at the floor the movement startles me. The frame is nothing fancy, like one you’d get from a drugstore, and the photo is of two people—it’s Celia. She’s grinning, her hair blowing all around that contagious smile, the happiness of a woman sucking the marrow out of life. She’s sitting cross-legged on the beach next to a man with a wide-brimmed hat and longish gray hair. That must be Calvin Hurtado. There’s a bucket between them and they both have something in their hands. Rocks or . . .
“Oysters.” Aden nods to the photo.
“I know that.” Ugh, I’m a horrible liar. I internally cuss out my sister for asking me to do this.
He grins, sexy and lopsided, and framed in a day’s-plus worth of beard growth. It’s then I notice now standing this close that one of his front teeth is a little crooked, which adds something boyish to his already handsome face. “Guess that vegetarian thing is more a selective preference, huh?”
“Yeah, well . . . shellfish doesn’t count.” Dammit, I sound like an idiot. Why did I say I was a vegetarian? Stupid, Sawyer. Celia has always been adventurous and that includes what she ate.
This guy is unnerving.
“If you say so.” He shakes his head and turns away. I set the photo down and follow him to the back of the tiny cabi
n.
The living space inside the boat is small, cramped like a studio apartment where the full-sized bed, living room, and kitchen all share the same space. There’s nothing by way of decoration, except for an American flag that spans one wall and is pinned up by thumbtacks. An unmade bed and basic generic plaid love seat round out the décor. Clearly Cal’s nephew doesn’t have a live-in girlfriend or wife as the place reeks of bachelorhood. There’s very little that would point to personal touches, a few dirty ball caps, clothes on the floor, and the kitchen table is covered in what looks like mail—both opened and still sealed. How can he stand living in this disorganization?
“See something you don’t like?”
My cheeks flame and I push up close to the table as he sorts through a single drawer. “I don’t mean to stare; it’s just I’ve never been inside a boat before . . . I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”
“Aden.” He looks up at me with those arresting chocolate-brown eyes. “Most people call me Colt.”
“Colt, like . . . a baby horse?”
He goes back to searching the drawer. “Yeah, or Colt like my last name.”
“Oh.”
Thick dark eyebrows drop over those eyes as he digs through the drawer that’s filled with a bunch of random things—pens, paperclips, small tools. Just watching him makes my palms itch to organize. They make dividers he could slide into that drawer and have a designated space for everything. This way when he needed a paperclip or a rubber band it would be there with its friends in its own little compartment.
“Cal said you’re paid up through December.” He pulls out a set of keys, looks them over, then tosses them back in.
December? That means Celia paid a year’s rent in advance. I make a mental note to ask her about that later. “I won’t be staying through December. Actually, I guess now is as good a time as any. I’ll be mov—”
“What’re you doing?” His gaze is zeroed in on my hands.
I look down and realize I’ve started to organize the mail into three separate stacks—one for unopened envelopes, one for opened, and one for garbage. “I’m . . .” Organizing. “Nothing.” I messy up the stacks and whisper, “Sorry.”
He glares at me for a few seconds longer, then returns to his search. “Here they are.” He tosses the keys to me only to have them hit me in the chest and fall to the tabletop at my belly.
His eyes settle on my chest. “Sorry about that. I thought you’d catch—”
“It’s okay.” I snag them off the table and cross my arms over my boobs to get his eyes back on my face.
It works and his gaze slides to mine but not before lingering a second too long on my lips. I hold back a shiver.
“What’s this big key for?”
“Your car.”
“I have a car?”
He squints.
“I mean, of course. My car. I just . . . it’s been so long since I’ve driven in my car, so . . .” God, is this room getting even smaller? I search desperately for a subject change. “You mentioned a break-in?”
“Yeah, I left you a message.”
“Right, but um . . .” I chew my lip, then clear my throat. “Was a police report filed?”
My question seems to irritate him judging by the firm set of his jaw. “Of course.”
“Does that happen there often?”
He slams back the rest of his beer and burps, seeming to love the way I recoil when he does. “Well, freckles, if you’re asking if people get their shit stolen around here the answer would be yes, but only dumbfucks who don’t remember to lock up their bikes or leave their wallets on the front seat of their car.”
I blanch at his condescending tone. “Are you implying that I’m a . . . dumbfuck?”
He shrugs and his glare tightens. “No, your door was locked. They got in through the window.”
“Did the thieves get anything of value?”
“Not that they had on them.”
“Did the authorities—”
“Do you always talk like this?”
I pop a hand on my hip and even though picking a fight with a hot guy is very much not something Celia would do, I do it anyway. “What’s wrong with the way I talk?”
“How many more questions do you have in that pretty head of yours?”
My mouth shuts, my mind goes blank.
He called me pretty.
I’m the twin who gets compliments on my eye color or my SAT scores. I’m the dedicated one, the one who would get a decent job, makes employee of the month, but I’ve never been called pretty. Celia and I are identical, but neither of us are spectacular looking. Our eyes are too big, our lips too full. But Celia has the expert-level makeup application skills to accentuate her everyday features and transform them to bombshell-worthy. Me? Other than the concealer to cover my freckles, I’m a blush and mascara girl. Blunt shoulder-length hair because it’s easier to manage, and my best features get lost within my underachieving beauty regimen.
I open my mouth to say just that, but then remember he thinks I’m Celia and slam it shut again.
“That’s better.” He tosses his empty beer and it soars a good ten feet before landing in the trash. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“No,” I whisper.
“Right, well, if you don’t mind, me and my stinky unorganized ass are ready to throw some fish on the grill and get drunk.”
What is it with this guy? Maybe showing up on his boat is some kind of maritime offense?
I follow him out and the sun has completely disappeared and left a sprinkling of stars in its place. I pass the hunched-over man with the weird eye and give a quick finger wave. “Nice meeting you.”
“You be careful now.” He attempts to get up and help me off the boat, but a stern look from Aden sits him back down with a humph.
“I’ll walk you to the gate.” Aden steps off the boat and onto the dock as if there isn’t a foot of water separating the two. He offers me his hand, which is surprising after our heated interaction inside.
I take it and hold my breath while stepping off, making sure this time to steer clear of colliding with his big body. “Thanks, but I got it from here.” I slip my shoes back on.
“I’m walking you to the gate,” he growls, and again I wonder how I so easily piss this guy off.
I follow behind him trying hard not to check out the way his shoulder muscles bunch under the thin fabric of his tee, or the way his biceps stretch out the sleeve.
He hits a button on the gate, which releases the lock and swings it open. After I walk through I thank him but he remains in place.
“I’m good now. I have an Uber waiting.”
It wasn’t necessary to point out the car because when I peer back at Aden he’s glaring right at it. “You came in that?”
“Yeah.”
He blinks and seems to shake something off. “Be safe, Celia.”
I flinch at his calling me my sister’s name, then nod and scurry off before I say something else to upset him. Or worse, spill the truth.
I’m not Celia, and I need to pack and be on a plane to Phoenix before I slip up any more than I already have.
ADEN
“I’m tellin’ ya, the thing had to be close to a thousand pounds. My line snapped so hard the recoil threw my pole forty feet!” Avery’s booming voice drowns out the classic rock filtering from the jukebox speakers.
“Bullshit,” I mumble into my whiskey glass while the washed-up sailor to the right of me continues on with his fish story.
Others chime in, making this another typical night at the Office. Too many dicks in one room make for a lot of shit talk.
The dive bar is right on the marina so I don’t have to worry about getting a DUI added to my already growing record with the SDPD. I stare at the old black-and-white photos behind the bar, images taken back when the Portuguese dominated the tuna fishing industry here over a hundred years ago. This bar was built as a gathering spot for the men when they pulled
into port. Not a damn thing has changed. I’d argue the place smells worse now than it did back then, but it does the job it’s supposed to. No windows, no frilly features, just a wall of booze and a place to sit.
In the last few months I’ve become a regular and no matter when I show up—morning, noon, or night—my seat that backs up against the wall at the end of the bar is always empty and waiting like an old friend, which is exactly what I needed tonight.
“Colt, you remember when I caught that marlin!” Spit flies from Avery’s slurring mouth. “Ask Colt, he was there.”
I don’t answer because it’s all bullshit. That marlin was 240 pounds, but I’ll let the asshole have his moment.
I find when I’m in this kind of mood I’m better off keeping my mouth shut.
After walking Celia to the gate I felt itchy, like sand crabs were burrowing under my skin. The mild confrontation with her sparked an edginess I can’t shake. When I made it back to my boat I could still pick up the lingering scent of her perfume or whatever the hell that was I could smell on her skin and for some fucked up reason it made me restless. Nowhere near ready to hit the sheets, Jenkins and I decided to drop by the Office for a little sleep aid.
Nick, the bartender and owner, slides another glass of amber liquid in front of me and I nod my thanks.
“No way you caught no thousand-pound anything using that shit bait.” Jenkins knocks back his drink and Avery glares at him.
“Shit bait? What the fuck are you talkin’ ’bout, old man?”
They go back and forth and the argument turns to static as the liquor courses through my veins and numbs just about everything.
Feeling eyes on me I look across the bar and lock onto a familiar smile.
Sydney.
I lift my glass and she takes that as an invite over as she puts her tray down on the bar and heads my way.
I wish I could say that her presence made my pulse race like it used to. When I first met her I looked forward to her shift ending so I could take her back to my boat. Over time I’ve lost my taste for a lot of things and as much fun as she has been, I’m beginning to get bored with it all.
“Hey, Colt.” She leans against the wall next to me.
I turn my head, but my elbows stay firmly planted on the bar. “Syd, how’s it going?”
Wrecked Page 5
