CHAPTER 5

Four Months Later

 

“Captain Tate,” said the white-haired gentleman, “on behalf of the New Greenwich Men’s Association, we want to thank you for leading such an exciting and successful charter!”

As his five friends clapped in agreement, Mr. Franklin handed over a thick envelope to Tate that contained the tips for herself and her crew. And from the feel of it, the NGMA charter had been a success.

“Thank you, Mr. Franklin,” she said with a grin. “And don’t you forget to send me a picture of that sailfish on the wall of your den, you hear?”

“I will do, Tate! I promise. She’s a beauty.”

“Sure is.”

She exchanged hugs and handshakes with the six gentlemen before waving good-bye from the dock. When her guests were out of sight, she looked over her shoulder at her boatswain, Tom. “Get her in shipshape? I’ll divvy up what’s here.”

“Aye, aye, Cap,” said Tom, turning to his crew of four deckhands and calling out a list of tasks from spraying down the decks to securing the tender.

Her lead steward, Jones, came up from below decks with four snow-white, recently laundered and folded towels in his arms. “Good job this charter, Jones.”

“Thanks, Cap.”

She held up the envelope. “Good tip too.”

Jones smiled and nodded. “Glad to hear it, ma’am.”

Tate glanced at the towels. “Restocking the hot tub area?”

“Aye, Cap.”

“Carry on.”

There were some charter captains, of course, who didn’t exercise such formality with their crew, but Tate had learned the old ways from Uncle Pete, and they’d served her well. It didn’t matter the age or experience of her crew; they respected her as their captain because she insisted on it. There was never any confusion about who was in charge, and they’d be fired the second they showed Tate the slightest measure of disrespect or insubordination.

In return, Tate made smart choices, offered high-end service, and after taking a 20 percent cut of tips, split the rest evenly among the crew. For the five-day cruise they’d just completed? Each of her eight crew members would probably make a gratuity of more than one thousand dollars each. It was no wonder her employee retention rate was so high.

“Skip,” said her mechanic, Julio, who fell into step beside her as Tate headed for the bridge, “you got a minute for bad news?”

“Do I have a choice?” she asked.

“Nope,” said Julio, scratching the back of his perpetually sunburned neck. “I hate to say it, but we got some hull osmosis going on. Doesn’t look good.”

Hull osmosis? Fuck. That meant blisters on the bottom of the boat.

Tate sighed, putting her hands on her hips and her sunglasses on her head.

“It’s only four years old.”

Julio nodded. “Which means it’s a manufacturer defect.”

“It’s got to be covered in the warranty.”

“It is, Skip,” said Julio. “It is, and that’s the good news.”

“So what’s the bad?”

“Warranty stipulates you gotta report it when you find it so they can fix it right away.”

“It’s just osmosis. It’s not like it’s going to sink my ship,” said Tate, feeling annoyed. February and March were moneymakers for her, and she knew—as well as any captain—that the cure for osmosis took time. A boat needed to be hauled out and dry-docked, then sanded down so that the fiberglass could be repaired. It was time-consuming as fuck and would have her boat on land for the next six to eight weeks.

“It’s a busy season!” she exclaimed.

“Skip? It’s Florida. It’s always a busy season,” he said, giving her a rueful look. “Do you have cancelation insurance?”

She shook her head. “Nope.”

“You got friends who can take your charters? Your uncle?”

“Maybe.”

“If I may speak freely, ma’am?”

“Go for it.”

“It’s a nine-million-dollar yacht. Call the manufacturer. Get her in dry dock ASAP. Get the hull fixed.”

Tate ground her teeth together. She really didn’t like hiccups like this. She didn’t like messy. She didn’t like delays. She didn’t like canceling charter reservations. But what choice did she have? Her boat was her bread and butter. If it needed maintenance, it needed maintenance. That’s all there was to it.

With a grimace, she nodded. “Set it up. Tell Jones I need to talk to him, eh?”

“Will do.” Julio nodded. “It’s the right call, Skip.”

“It sucks, Julio.”

“Yeah, it sucks,” he agreed, pulling his cell phone from his hip pocket and leaving to call QRN and set up the repairs.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” muttered Tate, climbing up the stairs to the bridge and flopping down in her cream leather captain’s chair. Out of commission for all of March and most of April? She’d have to cancel at least six charters. What a fucking mess.

It wasn’t that Tate couldn’t afford the time off. Her bank account was flush. Not only had her parents left her a very comfortable inheritance, with which she’d purchased the boat outright, but her business—when she had a working vessel—was thriving. It’s just that having two months of dead time didn’t feel right. How the hell was she supposed to fill those endless days?

Jones knocked twice before sliding the glass door open and stepping inside. “Cap, you need to see me?”

Tate sat up. “I hate to do this to you and the rest of the crew, but ship’s got maintenance issues and needs to go into dry dock and maintenance through April.”

“You going to rent a sub?”

Tate shook her head. She didn’t trust the maintenance on other boats. She wasn’t comfortable going out to sea in someone else’s ship. “I’ll roll over the smaller groups to Uncle Pete, if he’s free. The rest I’ll try to reschedule with other captains.”

“And us?” asked Jones, referring to his staff and that of the boatswain and crew.

She sighed. “I’ll pay two months’ salary to all of you to cover your contracts.”

Jones winced. “Out of your own pocket?”

“It’s the right thing to do, Jones. Hoping you’ll all come back in May.”

“I think you can count on it, Cap.” Jones, who was a career steward and twenty-two years older than Tate, nodded. “You’re a class act, ma’am.”

“Thanks for that, Jones,” she said, watching him go.

Pushing away from the console, Tate left the bridge, heading down two flights of stairs to her cabin. Sitting down on her bed, she took a deep breath and sighed.

Eight weeks. Eight weeks off.

What the hell am I going to do for eight weeks? she wondered, looking around the bedroom that she called home.

She could pack a suitcase and stay at Uncle Pete’s place, where he kept her childhood bedroom ready and waiting for her. Maybe he could use some help on his charters too—Tate would be glad to lend a hand. It was the least she could do if he was going to cover some of her business.

Glancing at her desk, her eyes landed on her laptop. She reached over, pulled it onto her bed, and opened it. It had been weeks since she’d looked at Facebook or opened her personal e-mail account—she’d been slammed with winter sailfishers, and it was all she could do to keep with messages and reservations that pertained to business—but with a two-month hiatus suddenly and unexpectedly lying before her, time had suddenly slowed down.

Scrolling through dozens of junk e-mails, she stopped when one subject line caught her eye: Spend St. Patty’s at Summerhaven!

She bit her bottom lip as she eyed the message. Rolling over onto her stomach with her feet in the air, she clicked on it, her heart hammering as she watched the hourglass icon spin, waiting for it to open.

Since leaving Finian at the Druid back in November, she’d tried very hard not to think about him, mostly because it didn’t feel good. It stung, and she didn’t know what to do with those sharp jabs of pain when she remembered him. Sometimes, she relived their fast and furious love affair in her dreams, however, and she’d wake up slick with longing and tempted to message him over Facebook. It would pass, though, that quick, acute yearning. If she ignored it, it would go away. And as the months sailed by, he faded little by little.

It was just a weekend fling. Don’t try to make it more than it was, she reminded herself whenever she did think of him. To pour salt on the wound, he too hadn’t gotten in touch over Facebook or Instagram, though both of them had active profiles.

Does he ever look me up? she wondered.

In November and December, she’d checked on him from time to time, gazing at the picture on his profile or smiling at a shot of him holding up Jenny so she could put the star on the top of Ian’s Christmas tree. Finally, by January, she’d had to force herself to stop looking. She’d put her laptop away and mostly ignored it since.

Until now.

The message appeared on the screen, and Tate held her breath as she read.

Dear family and friends,

You are cordially invited to spend St. Patrick’s Weekend with us at the Summerhaven Event and Conference Center this year!

We will be opening a handful of winterized cottages located on Oxford Row and planning meals and events that will highlight our Irish heritage. Cost will be nominal.

Please let us know if you will be joining us from March 14–18, and we will look forward to honoring our patron saint with you!

Love,

Rory, Brittany, Tierney, Burr, Ian, Hallie, Jenny, & Finian

Finian.

She took a deep breath, filling her lungs.

Sliding her eyes up the screen, she noted that the message had been sent three weeks ago, on February 10, and her lips pursed as she wondered whether or not there would still be space for her.

That is, if she decided to attend.

The idea of seeing Britt and Hallie again was compelling, but the idea of seeing Finian again had her stupid heart soaring…which made her snap her laptop closed with a huff.

“You’re not going,” she said softly aloud. “Absolutely not.”

As much as she wished she could, Tate couldn’t deny the fact that she’d gotten attached to Finian during their weekend together. And going up there for St. Patty’s would just reinvigorate her crush, right? Right.

“So you’re not going,” she muttered. “That’s that. Get over him.”

Get over him. Hmm. Get over him?

But how will you get over him if you don’t go back up there and find some closure?

The idea snowballed in her head, the merits of the plan asserting themselves far more loudly than the disadvantages.

Here were the facts: since returning from New Hampshire, she hadn’t had a date, hadn’t screwed around, hadn’t fucked, hadn’t even kissed a man. Nothing. Nada. She was frozen because every time she contemplated getting physical with someone, she’d think of Fin.

She’d remember some funny thing he said or the way his face looked when he was sleeping. She’d think about the way he’d touched her—gentle, then rough, then gentle again—or the way he’d kissed her. She’d cross her legs remembering how divine it had felt to have his cock full and throbbing inside of her. She’d think about his sisters and brother and wonder if he was a good mechanic. She’d wonder how many he’d fucked since her, and it would make her so sad that her appetite would wane and her lust cool.

And without even meaning to, she’d step back from whatever liaison she was considering.

But maybe…just maybe…she’d idealized him from a distance.

Maybe his eyes and smiles weren’t as sparkly in real life as they were in her memories.

Maybe he wasn’t as effortlessly funny.

Maybe the sex wasn’t as good as she remembered.

Maybe he was just some boy who’d captured her imagination for one sweet, sexy weekend, but her memories were making him into something he wasn’t. At any rate, her memories were making it impossible for her to move on.

“So…maybe you should go back,” she said, opening her laptop again and hitting “reply” before she could play devil’s advocate and talk herself out of it. “Go back up there and get him out of your system, Tate.”

Hey, Britt,

It’s Tate here.

I’ve been slammed with charters since New Year’s, but my schedule just opened up, and if the invitation is still open, I’d love to come for St. Patty’s.

Let me know!

She pressed send, then refreshed the screen. Over the next hour, when she should have been rescheduling the charters she needed to cancel, she packed up her belongings and refreshed the screen…over and over and over…until there it was: RE: Spend St. Patty’s at Summerhaven!

Gulping softly, Tate clicked on the message, rubbing her sweaty hands together and chewing on her bottom lip as it loaded.

Tate, we always have room for you!

See you on the 14th and YAY!!

Britt

“Yes!” she hissed in victory, clapping her hands together.

Yes, said some salty part of her brain that wasn’t a bit fooled. It gave her side eyes. It pursed its lips. It called her out on her bullshit. Good luck with that…closure.

***

“Ooo! Yay!”

Finian looked up from the long table in the Summerhaven office where he was folding flyers and stuffing them into envelopes. Across from him, Mrs. Toffle was running the envelopes through a stamp machine, and in an hour, Ian would be back to take bins to the post office before it closed.

“Good news?” he asked Brittany, who was sitting in the adjacent sitting room by the fireplace with her laptop on her lap.

Well…what was left of her lap. At almost seven months pregnant, she had more belly than lap at this point.

“Yes!” She looked up and nodded. “One more for St. Patrick’s Weekend.”

“This late in t’ game? Cheeky fucker, whoever it is.”

Mrs. Toffle looked up with a gasp and scowled at Fin. “Language, Mr. Kelley!”

“Sorry, Ms. T,” he said.

“Though Finian does have a point,” she continued, agreeing with him. “The festivities are in two weeks. Surely they could have given you more notice?”

Brittany shrugged. “I don’t mind. It’s just one more person. Besides, it’s Tate! I barely got to visit with her at the wedding, so—”

“Wait!” Finian’s neck snapped up. “Wha—who?”

Brittany’s blue eyes focused on his, surprised by his reaction. “Huh?”

“You, uh…you said…” His tongue darted out, and he licked his lips, trying to ignore the sudden and almost painful hammering of his heart. “Tate’s comin’? Tate?”

“Yeah. Tate. My friend from camp? Small? Blonde? She was at my wedding. Ringing any bells?”

Fin ignored her sass. “She’s comin’ here?”

“Um. Yeah. For St. Patrick’s Weekend.” She laughed softly. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Maybe just heard about one,” he muttered.

Tate.

Feckin’ Tate, who left me at the Druid, with my heart bleedin’ all over my sleeve.

Feckin’ Tate, who, despite my pathetic hopes, hasn’t called, hasn’t written, hasn’t so much as liked one of the stupid, feckin’ clickbait pictures I’ve posted on Facebook and Instagram in the months since she left.

Feckin’ Tate, who was the hottest feckin’ girl I’ve ever known, who’s haunted my bloody dreams near-nightly, makin’ me so feckin’ horny by mornin’, my knob is like to snap off.

That Tate. Was coming back. To Summer-fucking-haven.

And frankly, despite the way his heart had screeched to a halt at the very mention of her name before starting up again like it was off to the damned races, Fin didn’t know whether to smile or frown at the prospect of seeing her again. Did he want to kiss her or wring her neck?

It had been a long four months since she left, and respecting her wishes not to reach out to her had been brutal. But she was clear from the beginning—she’d told him: Don’t get attached. And what had he bloody well done? He’d fallen for her. Well, fine. That was bad enough. He certainly wasn’t going to act the eejit, chasing at her heels like a lovesick puppy and wishing he could have her when he couldn’t.

Believing that he’d never see her again had been one of the only things making their separation easier. He thought about her a lot, sure, but he also knew that he had an airplane ticket back to Ireland dated March 20, and he’d likely never cross paths with her again. She’d be a distant and sweet memory of a whirlwind weekend in the States, fading with time and eventually releasing whatever unwanted hold she had on his heart.

Now? Knowing that he’d be seeing her again in two weeks? He was thrown. All of the hot, consuming lust he’d been trying to ignore for the last few months came brimming back up to the surface now as Britt and Ms. T discussed which cabin was available for Tate’s use. Yeah, he wanted her. On a physical level, he wanted her bad. No, that wasn’t true. On every level, he wanted her bad, which, frankly, was a problem.

Finian had had plenty of time to think since Tate left, and he’d come to a realization about himself that had initially surprised him: while he didn’t want a clingy, uppity lass like Cynthia on his arm, it turned out he wanted something considerably deeper than Tate was willing to offer. With the right girl, he wanted the possibility of love. He wanted the possibility of commitment. He even wanted the possibility of forever.

Love. Commitment. Forever.

Three things that Tate was 150 percent not interested in having or offering. The fact that Finian wanted the possibility of those things with Tate was his problem, not hers.

So regardless of the fact that she looked like an angel and fucked like a demon, he could do them both a favor in two weeks when she arrived at Summerhaven.

He could stay the fuck away from her.