Cole

This town—if you could call the tiny collection of homes, boats, and roads that—was charming. Small and storybook quaint, and humble. The people here were decent, honest, salt of the earth. All the things snotty dickheads like me said about people who lived simply and worked the land and sea.

And no one gave a shit about me. At least that was how I was interpreting the reception I'd received in the past few days. The folks in town were curious about Owen's houseguest, sure, but they were more interested in my boat than my origins or identity. The sailors and fishermen in the area wanted the lowdown on my vessel, and they accepted me without qualification.

I couldn't decide whether I'd overestimated my celebrity or underestimated the allure of a beautifully crafted sailboat. It had to be some combination of both.

That, and the realization that Silicon Valley was a weird little jungle gym composed of ambition and backstabbing, gossip, and crazy wild money. We in the Valley—and sometimes, California as a whole—liked to believe we had it right. We knew the way, and everyone else just had to hurry the hell up. But living in Talbott's Cove and working the decks forced me to reconsider all that. I was beginning to believe that this was right, and the Valley was missing out on something essential.

It was a learning experience, this past week with Owen. We were both particular, but Owen erred on the side of anal retentive perfectionism, and I didn't understand that shit. I was a night owl, and I figured a lifetime on the water had formed Owen into an early bird. He was a Red Sox fan, and—apparently—I was wrong.

But it was a good week. Great week. I learned things I'd never considered—separating lobsters based on size and sales channel, tying knots for every conceivable purpose, maintaining a lighthouse—and basked in the warmth of Owen's approval every time I got it right. He was an antisocial grump to be sure, but that didn't make him any less of a good man. And he was good.

When finished hauling in his lobsters for the day, Owen turned his attention to fishing tuna, haddock, cod. He sold some directly to restaurants along the coast, but he delivered most of it to a farm-to-table co-op program that distributed fresh fish to nursing homes, veterans' hospitals, and public schools. He was a member of the Talbott's Cove town council because—according to Owen—he wasn't going to let some yahoos take over.

The guy practiced what he preached, and there was something about that—about being a man who I could respect and admire—I found devastatingly sexy. I had to drag my gaze away from his thick, powerful arms every time he pulled a trap up from under the sea. Or when he planted his feet wide on the deck, his shoulders tight and his long stare traveling over the water like he was a ruler appraising his kingdom.

Owen was strong and sure, and I wanted him. In every possible way.

If I was even half as strong or sure as Owen, I would've told him I was attracted to him. I would've told him I wanted to kneel at his feet and rub my cheek on his thighs, and beg for the privilege of serving him.

But I wasn't, and I didn't.

I rationalized it all away as fear of wrecking the good things I had going here, but that wasn't it. I was afraid of rejection. His rejection. I preferred to be the one who did the rejecting—as fucked up and shallow as that was—and I didn't know how to make the first move.

Oh, I thought about those first moves. Thought about them all the fucking time.

The old stretch-an-arm-around-the-shoulder bit while watching television. Some flirty dinnertime chatter about how he liked his meat. Another fall overboard—intentional this time—and another excuse to peel off my shirt.

I mentally choreographed every one of those moves, but never executed any of them. The rejection would kill me, and kill this idyllic break from my reality. Instead, I followed Owen everywhere he went. Less lost dog, more cat in quiet heat. It was painful, all this self-denial, but Owen declining my advances would hurt more.

The worst part was the ticking clock. The knowledge that my time in Talbott's Cove was limited. Work on my boat was slow and spendy, but it would end right along with the summer. Not that I brought up my departure, and Owen didn't ask.

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