Wrecked

by J. B. Salsbury

  “Cal adores you. You’re practically family.” He pushes an errant hair that got stuck between my lips off my face.

  I lean forward, drawn to his tender touch.

  “I’m sorry about the conclusions I drew from seeing your photos. And I’m sorry about being a dick earlier. Just . . .” God, his voice is so soft, so vulnerable. “Take the pill.”

  His command is firm and the sincerity I hear in his voice is impossible to deny.

  “Here’s to swimming with bow-legged women,” I mumble, and toss the pill to the back of my throat, then wash it down with enough water to get the job done without overfilling my sensitive stomach.

  “Was that a quote from Jaws?”

  I smile and tug on the collar of my infectious life vest. Truth is, while Celia was out seeing the world, I was home experiencing the Hollywood version of it. “Yeah.”

  He stares at my lips until I shift uncomfortably.

  “Right.” He pushes up and puts some much needed space between us. “That should kick in pretty quick.”

  “Thank you.”

  He squints out into the ocean then tilts his chin. “See that?”

  Gripping the rail firmly to make sure I don’t topple over the edge, I follow his line of sight to see a cluster of birds diving into the water. “Are they—” I’m robbed of breath when I see my worst fear materialize in the distance. “Sharks!” I clutch my gut and drop back down to my seat, my pulse pounding in my neck. “Oh God, we’re gonna die!”

  “Porpoises.” He moves around me with all the control and elegance of a man who is comfortable negotiating the unsteady footing of a boat out in open sea. “And they don’t kill people.”

  It’s a good thing he never met my sister because he’d know right away I’m not her. Hell, she’d already be swimming circles around the boat, probably naked, with a bag of old bread to feed the fish with. She sure as heck wouldn’t be swallowed up by her fear, balled into a semi-fetal position on the verge of passing out.

  “The porpoises and birds follow the schools of sardines.” He grabs a fishing pole and messes with the thin line. “The yellowfin are below the sardines.”

  I blow out a long relieved breath. “Not sharks. Okay.” I can do this. What would Celia do? “So how do we catch them?”

  “You are a deckhand. You won’t be catching anything.”

  “So . . . what will I be doing?”

  My question seems to intrigue him. He smiles. It’s slight, slow, and sends butterflies through my belly. “Stand up.”

  He leans the tall pole against a single chair sitting in the middle of the back of the boat. I stand and wobble a bit with the instability of the rocking waves. His warm callused hands grip my shoulders to steady me. “You good?”

  “Yeah, I think so.” I don’t know what’s making me dizzier, the ocean or his proximity.

  He steps back and runs his eyes down my body in a clinical way and I’m surprised to feel disappointed in his lack of interest at what he sees. “This won’t do.” He drops to a squat at my feet and cups my calves over the cotton of my skirt.

  I sway. My hand shoots out to brace myself against his shoulder. He runs those big hands up the back of my legs, taking the fabric with them and stopping behind my knees that are now practically knocking together with nerves.

  “What’re you—”

  With a jerk to the material he bunches it between my thighs and ties it in a knot, front to back. Great, now I look like I’m wearing a saggy diaper. “Much better.”

  Reluctantly I drop my hand from his shoulder so he can stand.

  “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 m
ental 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.

  Celia turns to me, startled by the sudden noise. “I think I lost my bait.”

  I grab a fresh beer from the cooler. “Reel it in, let’s see.”

  She reels it in, her eyes on the line and her mouth pursed in concentration. “I felt a tug, but then nothing, and that was a long time ago.”

  I snag her line from the water and, sure enough, it’s an empty hook. “Yep, you’re fishing naked.” I pass her the hook. “You know the drill.”

  I watch in fascination as she swings her leg over to slide off the fighting chair and moves to the bait tank. She doesn’t ask for help, and after a few tries she snags a sardine and hooks it.

  “I did it!” Her bright smile is almost blinding as she holds the baited hook up with pride.

  “Good job.”

  “I’m the master!”

  I shrug. “Eh . . . you have a great teacher.”

  She hands me the pole to cast. “Admit it, you didn’t think I could do it.”

  “I had my doubts.” It’s too much to look right at her when she’s dropped all the stuffy formal crap so I keep my eyes on the water. “You proved me wrong.”

  “So . . . you’re saying I am the master.”

  “Fine.” I settle back into my seat. “You’re the master. Feel better?”

  “I’m the master!” She yells it loud and out to no one.

  “Baiter.” I bite my lip to keep from laughing.

  “I’m the master baiter!”

  “Say it again, freckles.” I can’t stop laughing. “A little louder.”

  “Oh my gosh!” She’s smiling so big and seeing it makes something uncoil in my chest. It’s a weird feeling. I don’t question it, but I’m grateful nonetheless.

  “Oh, come on. Don’t tell me girls don’t do it, I know they do.”

  She brings her beer to her lips and mumbles, “Maybe the girls you date.”

  “I’ll give you that.” I turn away from her grinning face because looking at her smile makes me smile and then we’re just smiling at each other, which makes me want to kiss her and I can’t kiss her.

  She clears her throat. “Where’d you learn to fish?”

  “Grew up on the water.”

  “Here in San Diego?”

  “North of Santa Barbara. My parents still live in the same house I was born in, my sister lives twenty minutes from there.” I take a swig of my beer wondering why I’m giving away information she didn’t ask for.

  “You didn’t want to stay close to your family?”

  I tried. But being around my family only served as a reminder of how far I’d fallen. The pitying looks would only lead me to outbursts and I couldn’t stand the way they’d look at me as if I were a stranger. I knew if I stayed I’d kill what little relationship we had left. “I’m only a four-hour drive away.”

  We stare ahead at the water as Jack Johnson’s voice fills the space between us until I see her move out of the corner of my eye. She’s pressing on the bright pink skin of her shoulder.

  “Shit . . . you’re burning.” I shove off my chair and grab a bottle of sunscreen from inside the cabin.

  She presses a delicate fingertip against her forearm. “I guess I am. It feels so nice, it kinda crept up on me.”

  I grunt and squirt a liberal amount of lotion into my palms, then push the thick life vest aside to expose the cap of her shoulder. She stiffens and I take advantage of the fact that she’s locked in the fighting chair.

  “I got it.” I run my hands over her skin and—fuck me—it really is as soft as it looks. Warm, and like silk beneath my palms. Sliding my thumbs beneath the vest, I press into the tight muscles of her shoulder blades. Awfully tense for a woman who spends most of her life traveling. I could get lost in a moment like this, forget who she is, what she means to my uncle, and seduce the fuck out of her.

  Get your head out of her pants!

  I hurry to thoroughly cover her shoulders with sunscreen, then work my way to the tops of her arms.

  She tenses again. “You don’t have to do that. I can get my arms.”

  I’m sure she can, but I’m incapable of taking my hands off her.

  “One of us needs our hands free in case we get a bite. Unless you want to trade—”

  “No. I’m good.”

  I run my thumbs down the lean muscle of her forearm as the seconds tick by and she slowly relaxes under my hands. Her body falls limply forward as I move back up to her shoulders and massage there. Walk away. Right fucking now.

  She hums low in her throat, a sweet and sultry signal to continue. If that’s the noise she makes when she’s being touched innocently, what kind of sounds would she make if I were touc
hing her with purely sexual intentions? Who am I kidding? My thoughts regarding Celia are far from innocent.

  Don’t go there, Colt. I blame the beer, and the sun, and the quiet solitude of the sea. “What do you do for a living?” It’s the first thing I think of as my hands refuse to release her.

  “Accountant.” Her spine goes upright as if she’s holding her breath. “I mean . . .” She slips out from under my hands. “I think I’m good now. Thank you.”

  Hidden at her back, I adjust myself in my shorts before I move around to my chair. My dick may not care about social politeness, but I do. “So between your bucket list jaunts around the world, you’re a number cruncher.” I guess I could see that. Living the straight life in the city has to be boring as hell. I’d need to skydive on the weekends too just to remind myself I was still alive.

  “Mm-hm.” She peers over at me and not for the first time I regret giving her the sunglasses and wish I could see her eyes. “How about you? What branch of the military were you in?”

  I hear nails on a chalkboard in the back of my brain, but I’ve learned how to talk about my military experience without giving everything away. “Army.”

  “Huh . . .” She turns to stare back out at the ocean. “Listen, I know I said it earlier but . . .” She seems to try to avoid looking at me. “I’m really sorry about what I said this morning. I’m sure you were a very honorable soldier.”

  If she only knew.

  “I tend to . . . lash out when I feel threatened.”

  And doesn’t that make me feel like an asshole. “You felt threatened by me?”

  “Not you, but about what you were implying.”

  Now it’s me who’s avoiding her eyes. She’s right, I practically called her a gold-digging slut to her face. “I’m sorry about that. I find I usually say the first thing that comes to mind without giving it much thought.”

  “It’s okay.” The boat rocks steadily. “You were mostly right about what you picked up from those pictures.”

  “Nah . . . I don’t believe that.” Because nothing about this girl screams money-hungry leech.

  She laughs, but it lacks humor. “It’s true. She . . . the girl in those pictures had a lot of growing up to do.” There’s sadness in her voice now.