Owen

"What is the difference between baked stuffed lobster and the lazy man's lobster?" Cole asked, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. "You know, this is like ethnographic research. I should be taking notes."

"I'm sure California is dying to know all about the way real Mainers live," I replied.

"I'm sure of it," he murmured. "Foodie blog post waiting to happen." He snapped his fingers and pointed at the menu. "No vegetarian fishermen welcome here unless they're willing to settle on a side salad. Can't imagine that would satisfy you."

Cole's eyebrow arched up as he spoke and it didn't matter what he was saying because I only wanted to grab him by the neck and kiss him. All I heard was satisfy, and that was it.

"It's just a bowlful of chopped iceberg," I said through clenched teeth. "A slice of cucumber. Maybe a chunk of tomato."

"Like I said, that wouldn't do much for you," he replied, gesturing toward me. "You're not a side salad guy."

I met his gaze and held it for a long, challenging beat. I didn't give up so much as a blink.

"Probably not," I finally conceded. "Neither are you."

He leaned back against the booth, slowly nodding as he crossed his arms over his chest. "I see you've finally figured that out," he murmured. "Good."

What the fuck are we talking about right now? The air around us was incendiary, and nothing else existed. Not the buzzing tavern, not my issues, not his impending departure. It was just us and all the tension in the world.

And I couldn't handle it. I couldn't sit here and go round after confusing round with this guy when all I wanted was to feel his skin under mine.

"The lazy man's lobster is a regular steamed lobster, but the meat has been removed from the shell. It's lazy because you don't have to crack the shell to eat it," I said, all the words rushing out in a burst. "The baked stuffed is in the shell and stuffed with breadcrumbs." I spared him a quick glance and went back to my menu. "You'd like the swordfish. Get that."

"Would you repeat that?" he asked. "I need to write this down. I'm going to take this concept back to Silicon Valley and find someone to open a seafood restaurant with ninety-four different lobster preparations. Poke bowls are out, Maine lobster is in." He nodded several times. "I'll make a killing on it, but first you need to explain the rest of this menu to me. What in the world is a steamer?"

"It's a clam. One that's been steamed," I said. "No more questions."

"I'll hire you as my crustacean expert," he said. "Give you a cut of the profits."

"No more questions."

"I'll call it the Owen Bartlett House of Lobster," he continued.

"No, you won't."

"I will," he said. "I will and you'll be famous. Everyone will want to know the true story of this legendary lobsterman and I'll have to tell them about Talbott's Cove. You'll have reporters camped outside your house and sailing into your cove."

I rolled my eyes. "You're not supposed to threaten your date."

"You know, this isn't the first time I've received that feedback," he mused.

"Not surprising," I murmured.

Cole returned to his menu, humming and quipping as he reviewed The Galley's seemingly infinite seafood offerings, and he didn't notice Annette Cortassi approaching our booth.

Annette was sweet like maple syrup, and I believed her picture was in the dictionary right beside the entry for "girl next door." She was the best of the best people and this town was better because she was part of it, but she harbored the belief that she could flip me like a split-level house.

She was convinced we'd end up together as soon as I gave her a fair chance, and I was convinced she was delusional in that regard. I didn't think she took any specific issue with my sexuality but I was certain she saw me as subject to the power of her pussy.

The implication that I'd abandon everything I knew to be true about myself was rather insulting, but she'd learned that trick from my mother. It drove me crazy, but I chose to ignore Annette's advances. I didn't hold them against her either. No reason to make an issue out of it when I was sure she'd get the hint soon enough.

My mother was still getting the hint, but that was another issue for another day.

"Quite the pleasant surprise to see you this evening," she said when she stopped at our table. "I never see you out after sunset anymore."

Her fingertips trailed over my shoulder, and I bit back the desire to shake her off. She met my scowl with a sunny smile that glowed with real warmth, and then turned her attention to Cole.

"Is this the new deckhand I keep hearing about?"

"I prefer fishery intern," he replied, offering his hand. "Cole."

"Cole," I said, gesturing between him and Annette. "This is Annette—"

"Such a pleasure," she interrupted, taking his hand between both of hers. "It's wonderful to have you here, Cole. I hope you're enjoying your time in the Cove."

Jealousy flared hot and fast, and I wanted to snatch his hand away from her.

"Annette owns the bookstore around the corner," I said, not allowing him the time to reply.

It was rude but I didn't care. He was here with me. We were having dinner together. This wasn't an opportunity for this town's single women to rub all over my friend. My deckhand. Houseguest. Whatever the fuck he was, he was mine and not theirs.

"That I do," Annette chirped. "I can get you anything you want."

Cole leaned back against the booth as he blinked up at her. Then his eyes flicked over her body. It was quick. If I hadn't been watching, I would've missed it. I wish I'd missed it.

"Anything, huh?" he asked. "That's impressive."

"Anything at all," Annette replied. "You name it, I'll get it."

"It's funny," he started, his knuckles running along his jaw, "I can't remember the last time I read a physical book. I'm an e-book convert."

Annette offered him a patient-but-mostly-impatient smile. "There's nothing like holding a book in your hands," she said. "Maybe you could stop by some time, and we can have a little chat about your interests. I might be able to recommend something new. Something you didn't expect you'd enjoy."

I was ready to flip the table. Just lift that fucker up and throw it across the fucking room. And then I'd tell everyone listening that he was moaning in my ear night last night, after I gave him permission. It was my name he was calling when he came because he belonged to me.

I'd do it, too. I really would. I couldn't sit here and watch all these days of falling for a man who wasn't meant for me come crashing down because the town sweetheart whipped out her vagina and wielded that thing like a Venus flytrap.

"I'll keep that in mind," Cole said. His tone was pleasant, almost fond. As if he not only knew what she was implying but was actually making note of her invitation.

The hell you are.

"What about the book you're getting me?" I asked, dragging her attention away from him. "Where's my special order, Annette?"

It was such a fucked-up move. I didn't want her—of course not—but the attention she was paying Cole had me seething with jealousy.

"Oh, don't you worry, sugar," she replied, reaching out to squeeze my forearm. "It's due in next week." She tapped her chin and pursed her lips. "Come see me a week from Thursday. It should be in by then. We can take a look at the new arrivals, too. There are a few you might like. I'll set them aside. Wouldn't want anyone getting to them first." A group of women called to Annette from the bar, and she waved to them in response. "I have to get back. It's girls' night. You know how it is."

"Not really," I said flatly.

Cole caught my gaze and lifted his brows. "Not at all," he added.

Annette glanced between us and threw back her head with a hearty laugh. "You two are a hoot. Just a hoot. I love it. You must be having a whole lot of fun together," she said before aiming a manicured finger in my direction. If you only knew, Annette. If you only knew. "Next Thursday. I'll stay open late for you."

We watched while she retreated to her group, and I shot a glimpse across the table before turning my menu to the draft beer list. "So, that's Annette."

"Dude." Cole barked out a laugh. "She's going to stay open late for you."

The implied meaning was heavy in his words.

"She has a few ideas about things." I blew out an irritable sigh. "I don't agree with all of them."

"That's not an idea, my friend. That's a heat-seeking missile." He glanced to Annette's group at the bar. Every woman was staring right at Cole—even the married ones—and if they didn't get their ovaries off him, I'd throw the fuck down. "She wants to climb you like a tree."

"There will be none of that," I murmured, shaking my head as I reread the beers. As if I didn't have this list committed to memory after a lifetime in this town.

"Yeah, I figured as much." Cole dropped his arms to the tabletop, laughing. "But she's under the impression you're bending her over a stack of books next week."

"For fuck's sake, McClish, don't you think I know?" I snapped. "That's why you're coming with me."

"You're looking to me for protection?" he asked, tapping the mint green polo shirt stretched tight across his lean chest. "I thought I wasn't allowed around knives or shotguns."

"You're not," I replied. "But I need a buffer. I haven't been alone with Annette in ten years."

He chuckled. "Based on the scene I just witnessed, she hasn't received the message you're sending."

Bringing my fingers to my forehead, I rubbed my brows until some of the frantic energy built up inside my mind dissipated. I couldn't handle all this lust, jealousy, and aggravation in one evening. I wanted to drop my head into Cole's lap and let him drag his fingers through my hair until I forgot my name. I wanted him and that want was infinitely greater than sexual desire. I wanted to fuck him straight through the summer but I also wanted to wrap my arms around him and never let go.

"I mean, she seems nice," Cole continued, "in a willfully blind sort of way. But then again, maybe she thinks you're playing hard to get. You aren't exactly an open book, my friend."

"Fuck. You're right." I whistled for the bartender's attention. "JJ," I called to him. "Double whiskey on the rocks." I glanced back at Cole and found an expectant grin on his face. I held up two fingers. "Make that two double whiskeys."

"I hate to be obvious," Cole started, "but is she aware that she isn't your type?"

"Yes." I spun the salt shaker between my palms. "I don't hide who I am."

"I wouldn't expect you to," he replied quickly. "But that only confirms my original suspicions about darling Annette."

"Which were?" I prompted.

"The bitch has balls," he said, laughing.

"No, she's…" My voice trailed off. "She's a good person. The trouble with living in the same small town your entire life is that everyone knows your story, and everyone forms opinions of their own. And they're not alone. I know everyone else's stories, too. I have opinions about many of them." I tipped my head toward the bar. "Lincoln, the guy with the Patriots hat? I've seen him at gay bars in Portland. Often enough to know he likes the leather and Levi's scene. He's married with two kids. Then there's Fitzy, the big guy blue t-shirt? His son is going through an opioid addiction treatment program. Third time. His wife doesn't want the son back in the house after treatment on account of him stealing everything out from underneath them and selling it to buy pills. Fitzy comes here most nights to keep from arguing with her about it, and I can't say I blame him. And you've got Brooke-Ashley over there. She went to college somewhere down south, somewhere fancy and prestigious. Graduated the top of her class, found herself a big job in New York City, the whole deal. But she moved back home two years ago, and hasn't said a word about it to anyone. Some people say something terrible happened to her. Others say her father has symptoms of early-onset dementia, and she gave it all up to care for him at home." I spread my hands out in front of me. "She decided to go by Brooke when she moved away, but everyone around here still calls her Brooke-Ashley. That's how it goes in small towns."

Cole rested his elbows on the table and it required profound restraint to keep from tracing the muscular lines of his forearms. "Which opinion has Annette formed about you?"

I stared down at the salt shaker because I couldn't manage another glimpse at Annette's crew. I didn't want to get thrown out of The Galley for fighting women. "It's her position that, because I went out with a girl or two in high school, I'm not thoroughly gay. You know, that there's a chance I could go straight for the right woman."

JJ set two glasses on the table, making no effort to keep the liquid from sloshing over the sides. "Good luck with this," he said as he walked away.

Cole shook his head as he mopped the spilled liquor with a paper napkin. "What's with all the gold star pedants these days? My God. They're worse than the evangelicals with their concern-trolling."

"I don't know, man." With a shrug, I gulped my drink. Every ounce of that liquor was going to backhand me in the morning but I didn't care about that tonight. "But she's not the one for me."

Cole considered his glass and took a quick sip. "Good to know."

"Yeah? Why?" I asked as jealousy boiled up again. "Is she your type?"

He tipped his head to the side, a half-smile tugging at his lips. "No. I'm not into the perky-bubbly-pushy cheerleader types," he said.

"Why not?" I asked. The whiskey was already going to my head, and I could feel my words getting loose. "Everyone likes cheerleaders, with the skirts and everything."

"Not me." Cole leaned across the table, his knuckles rubbing against the back of my hand as he shifted, and he tipped his head toward me with the same half-smile he used to reject pretty cheerleaders. Every nerve in my body was pulsing at his barely there touch. "I'm not interested in women, Bartlett."

I blinked at him, frozen as he threw my exact words back at me. Every conversation, every memory of him stripping off his shirt on the boat, every sound he made last night filled my mind, and I realized this guy didn't know how to make things easy on me. He was secrets and mysteries, and one complicated mess after another. He was single-handedly ruining my quiet, comfortable existence with his questions and noise and obscene abs, and that was before I knew he was an option. Prior to this conversation, he was a short-term condition. A crush bound to end as quickly as it started.

But now—now that he'd aimed that smile at me and stroked my hand and invited me into one of his quiet truths—he was an affliction.

"Owen, say something," Cole said, his voice tinted with the same untethered panic I experienced last night. His gaze fell to the table, and he shifted his knuckles away from my hand.

"You couldn't have mentioned this earlier?"

Cole ran his hand over his jaw. "Didn't seem like the right time," he said, not meeting my eyes. "But I've wanted you since you took me home like a stray mutt."

"Yeah, I really would've appreciated this information much earlier," I said. "Last night comes to mind."

He had the decency to stare down at the tabletop while his cheeks reddened at the mention of our exchange. "You got me so hard last night," he whispered. "I needed your help."

Stunned silence didn't begin to describe my current state of existence. I could still feel his fingers on my wrist, his touch seared into my skin like a tattoo. I dragged my tongue over my parched lips. Reached for my whiskey but then put it down. Grabbed my napkin but then tossed it aside. "Sounded like you were doing just fine on your own."

"Only because I was imagining your hand on my cock," he replied. "And…elsewhere."

I locked my fingers around his wrist and tugged him back. The only words I could pull together were, "I didn't tell you to let go."

"Okay," he said, gulping. The sight of his throat bobbing turned my cock to stone. "I won't."

"Good. That's good." Without looking away from him, I called, "JJ. Another round over here."