by Liz Johnson
“Everything he wants?” There was a knowing undertone to his words that made her skin tingle.
“It’s his dream, right?”
Her dad pursed his lips to the side and smoothed down his whiskers with two fingers. “Maybe. Once.”
Her skin began to crawl, and a stone settled in the pit of her stomach. “Dad, you’re not making any sense. He loves the Pinch. I understand now why you chose him.”
He cocked his head and scratched his chin, his bushy eyebrows pulling tightly together. “Well, that’ll be a bit of a problem. He told me he doesn’t want it anymore.”
She shot to her feet, staring down at him. “What do you mean? When did he say that?”
Her dad closed one eye and stared toward the ceiling with an exaggerated thinking face. “About a week ago, I suppose.”
“Why would he say something like that?”
“Well, now, I’m not quoting him, but I think he figured if there was a boat between you two, there couldn’t be anything else.”
“Da-ad!” She slapped his arm. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
He chuckled. “I wanted to see if you felt the same.”
“Don’t wait on me for dinner,” she cried as she raced out of the room, her dad’s laughter following close behind.
twenty-four
Mom, I’ll be back later,” Oliver hollered over his shoulder as he slammed the kitchen door behind him, racing for his truck. Which wasn’t there.
Didn’t matter. He would run to her apartment. Or her parents’ place. Or wherever she was.
He looked down at his clean jeans and tucked-in button-up. Okay, he’d walk. Briskly.
He hadn’t gotten a step past the paved driveway when tires squealed on the road, then kicked up a red cloud of dust into the lane. He knew the car but couldn’t comprehend what Meg was doing at his place.
She skidded to a stop a few feet in front of him, flew out from behind the wheel, and marched toward him like the queen had personally called her to battle. He couldn’t tell from her stern teacher face if she was still upset with him or just upset at the world.
“Meg, what’s wrong?”
She stabbed him in the chest with her finger, and he rubbed at the sting. But he couldn’t stop staring at her. Her blazing eyes and fierce features. Her hair wild about her shoulders.
“What was that for?”
“You told my dad you didn’t want the Pinch and the license and everything he’s worked his whole life for.” It wasn’t a question but an accusation.
He wasn’t going to let her walk all over him this time. “Yes, I did. And I’d do it again.”
She blinked twice, and the corner of her mouth gave the smallest twitch. “Why would you do that?”
“Because.” He stabbed his hand through his hair, still damp from his shower. “Because I love you. Because I wanted you to know that I love you more than any boat. More than any job. More than any future. Because without you, I don’t have a future.”
There. That had shut her up. But it might have also terrified her.
Meg froze, her perfect pink lips slightly open, her eyes wide and unblinking. Her lightning tongue seemed to have vanished—at least for the moment. He took the opportunity to say what he wanted to.
“Meg Whitaker, you amaze me. You are stubborn and loyal and strong, and I thought I was just going to have to put up with you this season. Then, out of nowhere, you showed up. And your pain was so familiar I couldn’t ignore it. Then I didn’t want to ignore it because I didn’t want to ignore you.”
He let out a short breath, turned his head, and clapped a hand to the back of his neck, ruffling the hair hanging over his collar. “I was not expecting you. I was expecting the girl you were ten years ago. The one who still hated me. But then you weren’t. You were this.” He waved his hand at all of her. “You worked just as hard as Kyle and me, and you were so set on proving yourself.
“Then one morning I realized I was looking forward to seeing you. Every day I tried to make you laugh. I wanted to watch your face light up with the sunrise. I wanted to tell you my secrets. I’ve never told a soul about my dad and Eli and all of that. But you were my shelter in the storm. I loved every night we spent on that boat, every minute we spent with your mom. And I love you. So there you go. I didn’t sabotage the boat. I didn’t set out to manipulate you. I was never going to sell to some buyer. I wanted to buy Whitaker Fishing for myself. But then all of my plans didn’t mean anything. Not without you. And I wasn’t expecting it. I just fell in love. All right?”
Meg gasped a small breath but still didn’t move except for a little quiver in her lower lip.
A possibility that he hadn’t considered before slammed through him, a punch to the ribs. Maybe she didn’t love him. Maybe she wouldn’t forgive him. That made his heart physically ache. But he’d done his part. If she didn’t feel the same, well, he’d be right back where he’d been that morning, practicing his best grizzly impression.
“Listen, it’s okay if you don’t—you know.” He had to force the words out. “If you don’t feel the—”
Then she was in his arms, hers tangled around him, pulling him closer, her lips on his. She wasn’t frozen anymore. Melting into him, she clung to his shoulders and sighed. He scooped her closer until there was nothing between them.
Brushing her hair from her face, he let his thumb trace the smooth lines of her cheekbone and then dip to the hollow behind her ear. The sweet scent of lavender followed her every movement as she shivered all over and buried her face into his neck. Her breath was warm and comforting against his skin, sending lightning down his spine and all the way to the tips of his toes.
“Meg.” Her name came out on a growl from deep in his chest. Right where he held her.
She finally pulled back just far enough to meet his gaze. “Oliver?”
“May I assume that means . . .”
“That I’m a little bit in love with you?” She nodded, and his arm around her waist tightened. “And that I’m so sorry I said such awful things to you?” Again she nodded. “I can’t believe you would give up all of your dreams for me.” Her words came out hushed, awed, and he dragged a hand down her arm until their fingers met. They brushed briefly at first, tentative, uncertain. Then she slipped her fingers between his, locking them together, holding on tight.
He held on too as he searched for the words. “It turns out it was an easy choice. You or the boat. I’ll choose you every time.”
Meg nearly melted into a puddle on the ground. How could he say such wonderful things and expect her to remain upright, expect her to keep her wits and her senses about her? And then she didn’t need to as he tugged her toward the stairs by the garage. They sat on the third step, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, fingers still locked. Right there she could tell him anything.
“I was scared. Before the season started, I was scared of losing my mom, scared of change. Somehow the Pinch became this familiar thing I could hang on to.”
He nodded a silent encouragement.
“And then you came along.” She motioned at him with her free hand. “You were not what I expected either. Somehow you became the anchor I needed—more than the business. It was you. You pointed me to hope even when I couldn’t hear it.”
He grunted softly, a question of clarification.
“Just something that Pastor Dell told me.” She stared off toward the setting sun, the bridge a gray blur against the pink-and-purple sky. “I can’t imagine all the things I would have missed with my mom if not for you. Thank you.”
He squeezed her hand.
“I told my dad today that I don’t want the business.”
He swung his whole body toward her, his shoulders blocking her view of the tree in the yard and the kitchen window across from them. “What? Why did you do that?”
“I guess probably for the same reason you did.” She lifted a shoulder. “And I really hate the early mornings.”
His laugh broke across hi
s face in waves, first splitting his mouth with a grin and then diving into his dimples. “What are we going to do?”
“I want you to take it.”
“I can’t do that.”
“No, I think you should work the Pinch, carry on my family’s legacy. And maybe sometimes I could help. You know, with . . . not early-morning things. And no bait.”
He opened his mouth, but no sound came out, so he threw his arms around her, crushing her to him. When he pressed his face to her hair, she couldn’t stop a little hiccup of joy.
He held her for a long time, his heart a steady rhythm, pacing her own. The sun sank lower beneath the horizon, crickets chirping their evening song. When she couldn’t contain it any longer, she whispered, “I might be more than a little bit in love with you.”
“Right back at you, kid.”
“And you kids are sure about this?”
Meg glanced down to where her hand rested on her parents’ dining room table as Oliver reached over to hold it, passing his strength to her. “Yeah, we’re sure. I want Oliver to take over the business.” When she looked back up, her dad’s face seemed to reflect the sun. Her mom’s thin lips held a distinct smile.
Her dad let out a soft chuckle. “I’ve got to say, you took long enough getting here.”
Meg darted a glance in Oliver’s direction, but his furrowed brows said he understood about as much as she did. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Only that I knew you didn’t really want to be a lobsterman. But I also knew if you could just get past your history with Oliver, you two would make a fine couple. He’s the kind of guy I always prayed you’d find.”
“Da-ad,” Meg said, covering her face with her free hand as her cheeks burned.
Oliver laughed, picking up her hand and carrying it to his lips. “Well, he’s not wrong.”
The corners of her dad’s eyes crinkled, his smile wide enough to span the bridge. “I just thought maybe if you spent some time together, you’d see it for yourself. But Kyle reminded me that fishing isn’t very romantic work.”
“Kyle was in on this?” Oliver nearly growled. “I thought he was sure quick to share all his romantic advice with me. Pushing me to patch things up.” He shot Meg a quick glance, his eyes filled with a tenderness she had only recently recognized he saved just for her.
“You won’t fire him, will you, Oliver?”
He shook his head. “No. I’m glad he pushed me when he did.”
“Me too,” she whispered.
When she glanced back across the table, something in her dad’s smug look made her breath catch. Her stomach dropped, and she closed her eyes as her head spun, connecting memories with scenes she hadn’t before. The back of her neck tingled as she thought about all of their struggles—and how the culprit hadn’t really harmed them but had forced them together.
Her eyes flew open, and she pointed at her dad. “It was you. You sabotaged our season.”
Oliver’s mouth dropped open as he turned toward her dad, questions written all over his face.
Her dad held up his hands in surrender, but his smile didn’t diminish. “You got me.”
“But you were in Toronto when our line was cut,” Oliver argued.
“True. I had an accomplice.”
“Kyle,” she and Oliver said at the same time.
“I can’t believe you would cut your own traps and leave them on the bottom of the bay,” Meg said.
Her dad looked like she’d personally offended him, pressing a hand to his chest. “I did no such thing. Kyle took the Pinch out the night before, hauled in the traps, and cut the line. They’re in his garage.”
Oliver shook his head and laughed in disbelief. “Of course they are. And the hauler?”
“I knew Meg could fix it in a minute. I just wanted to remind you what a good team you are, what special skills you each bring.”
Meg sat back in her chair, her shoulders shaking with mirth, her head still spinning. She waited for that feeling of being duped, the reminder that she’d been manipulated. But it wasn’t there. Not when she knew how much her dad loved her. Not when it was so clear that what he wanted for her was no less than what he shared with her mom. He wanted her to know a true partnership and a lifetime of sharing with Oliver the very best she had. Because it was worth it.
“I can’t believe you’d do all of that just to get us on the boat together.”
Holding up a finger, her dad added a clarification. “To get you on the boat together alone.”
Oliver squeezed her hand still cradled in his. “Well, sir, I’m awfully glad you did.”
“I’m glad you’re worth it,” her dad said.
Meg saw Oliver’s Adam’s apple bob and a subtle tremble in his lips. And she knew without a doubt that Oliver was the son her dad had never had, and her dad was the father Oliver had always wanted.
“So about the business . . .”
Oliver leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “I have the down payment. I can pay you the first installment we agreed on.”
Her dad scratched his chin, his white whiskers rustling. “Well, now, it seems to me that that money might be better used on a new truck. You’re going to have a hard time hauling the Pinch out of the marina before it freezes over without one.”
“But . . .” Oliver’s single word held a world of questions. Probably the same ones flying through Meg’s mind.
“I didn’t buy the license from my dad, and I’d never sell it to family.” Her dad’s knowing look made her entire face burn. Subtle he was not. Because it was written somewhere that fathers had to embarrass their daughters.
She and Oliver hadn’t talked much about their future beyond the business. They were just enjoying the present. Assuming that he would propose anytime soon was presumptuous at best.
Oliver leaned further across the table. “I just want to make it clear that I love your daughter, and it has nothing to do with your license. If you want me to have it, I’ll be grateful. If you’d rather keep it and just have me run the business, then I’ll do that. But at the end of the day, I’ll do whatever it takes to care for her. Always.”
Somewhere between “whatever” and “always,” Meg lost her breath and her patience. Pushing back her chair, she said their goodbyes. Then she rushed around the table to give her parents quick hugs and pulled Oliver through the kitchen and out the door with her.
The midday sun was bright and the air filled with a touch of autumn. She tugged on Oliver’s hand, spinning him toward her before she backed him up against the yellow wall. Memories of the time he’d pressed her against it made the butterflies in her stomach take off, and she laid her hands against the soft blue flannel on his chest.
“Always, huh?”
He shrugged. “We’ve been through too much to let it go to waste. And I kind of like the sound of Whitaker-Ross Fishing.”
Her stomach took flight, but not the way it did when she stepped aboard a boat. The way that only Oliver and his kindness could make it fly. “Whitaker-Ross, eh?”
His smile turned nervous, the corner of his lip disappearing beneath his tooth. “Yeah. It has a nice ring, don’t you think? And won’t Little Tommy and Druthers spit out their coffee when they hear it?”
Pressing up on her toes, she kissed the angle of his jaw. He stiffened, his breathing shallow. She kissed the other side.
“I wasn’t thinking right away or anything.” His words came out in a rush, probably because she hadn’t answered his questions. But she was having too much fun.
Sliding closer, she whispered into his ear, “What were you thinking?”
“That I love you a little bit.”
She tickled his sides, and he yelped.
“Okay, a lot. I love you a lot. Besides . . .” His voice dropped away.
She pressed her lips to his chin and then to his nose. He groaned, and she knew exactly what he wanted. She wanted it too. But torturing him was too fun. She walked her fingers up to his neck, slid
ing her nails around to the back, getting lost in his silky hair.
“You know all my secrets. Can’t risk letting you get away.”
“Hmm? Really?”
Wrapping his arms around her waist, he didn’t let her go. Which worked out well because she didn’t want to be anywhere else. Especially not when he pressed his lips to hers and held on with everything he had.
She held on right back.
This time she really didn’t care that God and anyone driving by could see them. Because she wanted to kiss him in front of the world for the rest of her life.
After a long while, she snuggled beneath his chin, her nose pressed into his neck. He was warm and familiar and so stable. Exactly what God knew she needed.
Looping a strand of his hair around her finger, she whispered, “You smell like my face cream.”
“No, you smell like mine.” And then he kissed her again, long and slow and so, so sweet.
one
Eli Ross had a black eye, a fractured wrist, and nothing else to his name. It was not the way he’d planned to come home.
Then again, he hadn’t planned to come home at all. He hadn’t planned a lot of things. Didn’t mean they hadn’t happened. So here he was. Standing in front of the little green house he’d called home until he was nineteen. It had been repainted—at least, the chipped paint on the side facing the bay had been scraped and replaced. The house nearly gleamed in the morning sun.
It still made him feel a little seasick, the memories from the other side of the white door just as fresh as they had been more than a decade before. His father’s empty closet. His mom’s pinched features. His brother’s face twisted with rage.
He shouldn’t be here. There was a reason he hadn’t been back in eleven years. A reason he’d kept his distance. A reason he’d never settled down and made a home of his own.
He didn’t need a home. But at the moment, he needed a place. Somewhere to rest his head, to regroup, to be still.
