I knew he worked on the water. Hell, there was a coffee table fashioned from a lobster trap in the other room. An anemometer on the back deck. Framed photos of boats and crews decked out in yellow rain gear lined the hallway walls. Curtains embroidered with anchors. Throw pillows in the shape of seashells. This place was fisherman central.
"Yeah," he replied. "Think you can handle that?"
"I'm better with…" What the fuck did I do well? I was terrible with people, moody as shit, and hated matters of business and finance. I could code, and had the personal phone numbers of several other billionaires who alternately wanted to kill me and commiserate with me. "Technical things."
His eyebrows arched. "You had a tough time with the technical things on that boat of yours."
"Ah, yeah," I said, rubbing my temples. "Different kind of technical."
"Decking isn't hard. You'll learn," Owen said. His gaze landed on me for a long beat, and I would've fidgeted under his watch if I hadn't enjoyed it so much.
Fuck yeah, I'll learn.
"How about a steak?" He moved to the refrigerator and then the pantry, piling food and dishes in the crook of his thick arm as he went.
Soon he had the materials laid out on the counter in neat rows. All right angles. I wanted to ask how often he cooked for two, whether there was someone special in his life. This wasn't a bachelor pad. It was a home, a place soaked with family, comfort, tradition. The idea of Owen living here by himself filled me with sorrow. He didn't even have a dog to keep him company.
Maybe there was someone, and he saw no reason to share that information with me right now. Fair enough. It wasn't as though I was being transparent about my life either.
"Why won't you let me give you any money?" I asked from the opposite side of the kitchen island.
Owen was busy seasoning the meat, and didn't look up when he spoke. "It's not necessary," he said. "If you really need to get rid of thirty grand, give it to the Maine Lobster Conservancy."
"Is that what you fish?" I asked. Watching Owen prepare food was like ballet, but instead of the dancer and Swan Lake, it was a hot fisherman and red meat. Breathtaking. "Lobster?"
He nodded, and pointed his elbow toward the romaine lettuce. "Can you manage a salad? Are you as reckless with kitchen knives as you are with shotguns?"
I sighed as I reached for the cutting board and salad bowl. I wasn't living that one down any time soon. "Since we've established you're not a pirate, I'll be fine."
"Arrrrr," he barked in a stunningly bad pirate voice. I wedged in beside him at the counter and chopped the lettuce. "Ye can't be sure."
4
Spindrift
n. Spray blown from the crests of waves by the wind.
Cole
"So, ah, it's Cole," Owen started, "right?"
I set the plates on the table and glanced up at him. "Yeah," I said, a whip of defensiveness in my words. There was no reason for it, other than my harebrained attempt at pretending to be anyone but myself.
Owen placed the salad bowl on the center of the table and pulled large wooden spoons from his back pocket. He'd tucked them there when we'd gathered the dishes and cutlery in the kitchen before transporting everything to the porch. "Just Cole? Like Cher? Or Rihanna?" He peered at me. "I guess you could make that work."
He sat at a small, weathered table, and I followed. My last name was stuck in my throat, thick and paralyzing like a mouthful of too hot coffee. The miserable part was that the coffee had to go somewhere—I had to swallow or spit—even if both options were equally unpleasant.
"McClish," I said quickly. It was more of a croak, a rough, guttural sound that I'd never be able to intentionally re-create.
Owen nodded, and busied himself with dressing the salad. I braced for the impact of recognition, the ten-second delay in which he'd put the pieces together and wonder aloud where he'd heard that name before. And then I'd be screwed.
"All right then, Cole McClish," Owen said as he heaped servings of salad, potato, and steak on our plates. He waved at me, an indication that I should eat. "This is a nice salad. Pretty spiffy how you cut those cucumbers."
"Yeah," I mumbled, staring at a forkful of lettuce and tomato. "Glad you like it."
Owen bobbed his head as he chewed. "Mmhmm."
He didn't offer another word. Not even a murmur. He really, really didn't know me. I couldn't believe that I had this incredible gift, this moment to be the version of myself that I wanted instead of the one I'd become, and I was experiencing it with a man too fascinating and desirable to be real. A breath whooshed past my lips, fast and ragged like I'd taken a kick to the chest. I covered it up with an exaggerated cough, and then dug into my dinner.
I worked hard at keeping my gaze trained on my plate as I didn't want to stare at my host. I mean, I wanted to stare and there was a whole lot of goodness to stare at, but I was still treading water here. I didn't know Owen and—as I'd discovered—he didn't know me, and that meant I had to exercise some of those manners Neera beat into me.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Owen asked, shaking me from my thoughts.
"Yes," I agreed automatically. I'd been staring at the crescent-shaped cove without seeing, my thoughts deep in debate over whether he hauled in those lobster traps shirtless. God, I hoped so.
"I don't have a lot of material requirements," he continued, "but I don't think I could live here without a porch." He pointed his beer bottle at the floor-to-ceiling screens that separated the deck from the elements. "You just can't appreciate this view from indoors."
I wiped my hands on a napkin and tucked it beside my plate. "How long have you lived here?"
Owen sipped his beer, his head moving from side to side as if he was digging back through memories to find the start of his life in this remote corner of the world.
"A little more than fifteen years now," he said. He leaned out of his chair, jerking his chin in the direction of the slim lighthouse nestled into the high point of the cove. "One family maintained the lighthouse for almost two hundred years. The DaSilvas. They worked on the water, of course. But the younger generation wasn't interested in the upkeep. Didn't want to get involved with lobstering either." He rubbed his chin, pausing for a beat. Owen stared at the rocky cove as he spoke, and his words cooled with a bit of melancholy. "I know it's not for everyone, but it's not right for traditions to die out like that."
"Is lobstering a family tradition for you?" I asked.
"No, not my family, but I seem to think anyone who has lived on these shores has a bit of it in their bones," Owen said.
I nodded though I didn't understand his logic. The world wasn't composed of people who felt compelled to follow their parents' footsteps anymore. There was no occupation-via-birthright.
"My mom was a high school guidance counselor before she retired. My dad worked in logging before he lost his hand," he continued. He offered a half smile with that tidbit, and I had to fight back an uncomfortable laugh. "Everyone who works in logging long enough loses something. Thankfully, it wasn't his head."
"I can understand why you wouldn't follow in his footsteps," I said. "The desire to keep your limbs and all. How did you get into lobstering then?"
"I bought this land, and the boat, from the last lobsterman in the DaSilva family," Owen said. "He took me on as a summer deckhand when I was twelve, and taught me everything." He met my gaze. "It's important work. Most people don't think much of it, but it's important to care for the sea." He gestured to the lighthouse again. "Times might change, but some things should remain the same."
"And it's only you here?" I asked, tempting him to tell me there was more to his life than lobsters and screened-in porches. He nodded. "For the past fifteen years? That's insanity. I'd lose my fucking mind if I was alone this much. Do the walls respond when you talk to them, or is the conversation one-sided?"
"I like it that way," he said, each word rougher than the one before. "I enjoy being alone." He stared at me, his eyes narrowed in warning. "I pref
er quiet. I hope that's not a problem for you."
I bobbed my head, in agreement or acceptance or some acknowledgement that I wasn't to question Owen's life choices any further. I was the guest here, and if I wanted to stay a guest, I'd shut the fuck up.
So much for those manners.
"The work on your vessel," he started, his voice low and heavy, "it will take weeks? Or months?"
Thanks to the kindness of the harbormaster, my boat was docked in Talbott's Cove's marina. Despite my willingness to pay above the market rate for his trouble, he rented the slip for pennies. I didn't understand this town or these people.
"Weeks," I replied, but quickly thought better of it. I was forever overcommitting on outcomes, underestimating timelines. "Although that depends on a few factors. It won't take too long to get the parts, and I think I can do some of the work myself—" Owen snorted. It was as if he knew I had a history of overpromising, too. "I'll have to hire contractors for the electrical system. There's no telling how long that could take."
Owen looked out at the water, nodding slowly. "All right."
After that, we ate in silence, the only sounds coming from waves lapping against the shore and beetles hissing as they doddled around the exterior lights. We cleared the table, and then washed and dried the dishes without sharing a single word. Once the kitchen was tidy—and right angled—Owen headed to the porch, book in hand.
He stopped at the door, his head turned in my direction but his eyes cast down. Avoiding me. "We hit the water before sunrise," he said. "Four fifteen. Be ready."
With that, the door snapped shut behind him. The message was clear: I wasn't to follow.
I heeded that message, but I also lurked in the kitchen. The view from the window over the sink allowed me to watch as Owen settled into a chair, swept his gaze over the horizon, and thumbed open his book.
So many contradictions in one man. He craved solitude but offered me—a stranger as strange as they came—a temporary home. He grunted and growled as his primary means of communication but stocked his bookshelves with great works of literature and read them. He believed in tradition but didn't seem concerned with passing his on to another generation.
I studied him for several minutes, and debated joining him out there. But I knew that urge was selfish—I wanted to be close to him. Figure him out. Crawl inside his mind. Then, crawl into his lap.
Instead, I returned to the room where I'd slept last night. I closed the door behind me and pivoted in a slow circle, taking in the red, white, and blue quilt, whitewashed pine walls, and rustic chest of drawers.
I wasn't special here. I wasn't gifted or talented, or remarkable in any way save for my ability to fuck things up. Part of me wanted to leave. Order a private plane to the nearest airstrip and get the fuck out of this small town before Owen realized he was better off without a roommate.
But another part—a bigger, hungrier part—wanted to stay. To be here and be no one in particular. To live like a regular person.
I stripped down to my boxer briefs and slipped between the sheets. I needed to rest up if I was going to work on a lobster boat first thing tomorrow.
5
Red-to-Red
adv. The condition in which two sea-going ships travelling in opposite directions pass each other on their port sides
Owen
Cole didn't know the first thing about fishing.
That was obvious when I found him inspecting my traps before sunrise this morning. He'd opened and closed them, studying the mechanism like he'd never encountered anything like it, or he thought I'd be quizzing him later.
I couldn't understand why someone who didn't know fishing or boating would set out on a solitary sailing journey. The fact that he hadn't crashed that boat of his into any underwater rock formations or another vessel was nothing short of miraculous. And he'd been out there all alone. None of it made sense to me. I didn't know what he did for a living—he'd said he owned a firm that was "in tech" and left it at that, though he indicated he had enough flexibility to take an extended summer vacation.
Must be nice.
I'd watched him from the house, leaning against the kitchen sink while sipping coffee. Barely two days had passed and I was in over my head with this man. Never mind the fact that everything inside me ached when I was around him, but he pushed me. He found my soft spots and zeroed right in.
Maybe it only seemed that way. Maybe I was overly sensitive after Cole's comments about my life of sea and solitude. And maybe I was drowning in my own needy, hungry hormones.
I'd tucked that thought away, right along with the erection throbbing behind my zipper, and went to work. I knew what I was doing when I was out on the water, and not even the presence of this beautiful man and his questions could shake my focus.
But then he fell overboard.
"I sure as shit hope you're better at those technical things," I said as I reached out to grab his hand. How he'd fallen was a mystery to me. All I knew was that he was on the deck one minute and in the water the next.
"I am," he snapped as he gained his footing on the deck. He bent at the waist, his hands propped on his knees, and took several ragged breaths.
I fisted my hands to keep from touching him. I didn't know what else to do with myself. I wanted to skim my fingers down his chest, feel the rasp of his scruffy jaw against my palm, brush the salt water from his skin, strip away his soggy clothes. "What the hell happened? Do you need to wear a life vest? You know, you seem to have a lot of accidents."
Cole gestured to the horizon. "It's choppy out here," he said. "I lost my balance when you pulled to the left."
The breeze was stirring up some whitecaps, but they were wimpy. "Just wait until hurricane season hits," I said with a laugh. "You'll understand choppy then."
"Fantastic," Cole grumbled. He looked down at his soaked shirt, another slim-fitting polo with an alligator over his heart, and shook his head. Then, because the deities loved and hated me in equal measures, he peeled off the offending shirt.
Fuck me.
All the humor in my body dried up and blew away. Poof. Gone. In its place—and the place of every other emotion I could summon—was desire. Stick-to-your-ribs, prickle-the-back-of-your-neck, hot-and-sweaty-all-over, headboard-banging desire.
Cole stood there, his legs braced and his chest bare, and wrung the ocean from his shirt while I watched. In all honesty, I was gaping. It was rude and gratuitous, and I had a schedule to keep, but I couldn't stop myself.
He was blond and golden in a way that reminded me of Zack Morris, Endless Summer movies, and The Beach Boys. Freckles dotted his shoulders. There was a thick patch of hair on his chest, and a fuzzy trail running between his washboard abs. His shorts were dripping wet and plastered to his legs, and my chest swelled at the giddy hope he'd take those off too.
"Any chance you have an extra shirt lying around?" Cole asked, meeting my gaze. "I realize that I've demanded quite of a bit of your hospitality, what with requiring another rescue on top of everything else, but I'd be extremely appreciative."
I blinked at him. Twice. Gulped, and then cleared my throat. "What?" I asked.
Cole swept his hand down his torso. "My shirt is wet," he said, careful to enunciate each syllable. "Do you have one I could borrow?"
A growl unfurled in my throat. "What about your shorts? Those are wet, too."
He glanced down, shrugging. "An astute observation, Owen. But I didn't figure you'd have an entire wardrobe on board," he replied.
My previous deckhand, the college kid, didn't talk much. He knew the routine and did his job with limited commentary, and we both enjoyed that approach. He had his big-ass headphones and a steady stream of whatever the kids were listening to these days, and I had the waves, the wind, the radio. It worked for us. It worked for me.
But now I had Cole, and he came with an endless supply of questions—he wanted to know every little thing about lobsters, fishing, boats, oceans, tides, and Maine—and chatter. All
these quips and smartass comments flew at me like a swarm of greenheads in July, and I couldn't keep up because I was busy imagining the taste of his skin.
And praying that he was gay. Hell, I'd be happy with bisexual. I'd scrub the memories of all those pretty young bi boys I'd met in Bar Harbor and Kennebunkport over the years. The ones who sucked cock like they'd declared it their major. The ones who preferred to sneak around because their parents wouldn't understand, or so they claimed. The ones who always went back to Yale or Penn, and their girlfriends, come September. The ones who returned summers later for their posh, picturesque weddings. The ones who taught me to stick with one-night stands and no last names because my heart was too tender for anything real.
Yeah, I'd forget all the promises I'd made myself.
When I didn't respond, Cole continued. "No sweat. I'm SPF'd. I can go without a shirt," he said, clapping his hands together.
I finally found my words, and they were harsh and low. "We have a schedule to keep," I said. "And we could do with less drama, McClish."
He held his hands out and quirked his brows up as if to say Who, me? He was cute when he wasn't busy wielding a shotgun or indulging his quarter-life crisis. He was charming in a half-smiling, eye-twinkling, chatty-Chad way. If I didn't keep my jaw clenched and my words to myself, there was no telling what would happen.
No, that wasn't true. Inaccurate. Erroneous. Completely false.
I knew what would happen. I'd laugh. Smile. Maybe even blush. I'd bend to Cole's light like a tulip to the sun, and for a few blessed moments, everything would be perfect.
But it wouldn't last. None of this would last, and it didn't matter that I had no idea what this was.
Cole crossed the deck and collected the hook-headed pole used to grab hold of the trap lines. He turned, the warm sunlight celebrating every line and curve on his chest, and a noise slipped from my lips. I couldn't hear much over the pulse pounding in my head but it sounded like Ohhh-mmm-ahhh.
Fresh Catch Page 3
