Cole

I woke up with a skull-ringing headache.

It took me a moment to place my surroundings, but the wash-worn linen under my head smelled of soap and sea in a rough, humble way that brought to mind the great redwood of a man who boarded my boat last night.

He'd said his name was Owen Bartlett when he ushered me to this room.

Owen of the big, capable hands.

Owen of the quiet, knowing eyes.

Owen of the "Good night, and…we'll need that head of yours looked at if it doesn't stop bleeding soon."

He didn't have to bring me back here. He could've left me to the Coast Guard and motored away without a backward glance. He was ready to kick my ass last night, but there was kindness and generosity punching through his grouchy veneer.

I rolled out of bed, groaning as the pounding in my head intensified. I would have flopped back onto the mattress, buried my face in the pillows, and surrendered to the headache if my bladder wasn't a second from bursting. I fumbled across the hall and into the bathroom.

Once relieved, I set to washing the dried blood from my face. The cut only looked terrible, as if I was an extra on The Walking Dead. There was swelling, and bruising running down my nose and over one cheek. As per usual, I'd inflicted a sizable amount of damage on myself.

Staring into the mirror, I realized I was almost unrecognizable.

I'd been on the covers of countless magazines—everything from Forbes and Newsweek to Rolling Stone and Nylon—and while I wasn't as identifiable as George Clooney or Justin Timberlake, most people knew I was someone. A memorable face, but not memorable enough to stop traffic.

But Owen didn't have to know I was someone. Maybe this was my chance to be no one again, if only for a couple of days.

After showering and changing into a fresh set of clothes, I dug my glasses from my bag. The pounding in my head made it impossible to see straight. Next, I fumbled through the pockets for my phone. There were missed calls, voicemails, emails, and text messages lighting up my notification bar, and I ignored all of it. I didn't need any of that noise right now. Instead, I called the small firm that built most of the components on my boat, and requested a full complement of replacement parts.

They were extremely apologetic, even offering to send their top craftsmen out to repair my boat personally. I didn't want that. They'd work too damn fast for my purposes here, and while I didn't know much about this region, I knew a crew of custom boat fabricators from California would garner too much attention. Since they didn't want negative press any more than I did, they agreed to shipping the components and keeping this quiet.

They thought I was doing them a favor by staying low profile. They thought I was only concerned with protecting my investment in their firm rather than protecting my anonymity. It was funny how these situations worked. How people focused on the things they were getting out of an arrangement before considering how the arrangement harmed or benefited others. People were, as a matter of course, self-absorbed assholes and I knew that to be a fact because I had significant experience in the self-absorbed asshole business.

But that was all the navel-gazing I needed for today.

Next, I tapped open my secure text messaging app. I'd built it myself, and it was the only thing I trusted for communication with my team.

That forced a bitter laugh from my chest. It wasn't clear to me whether I had a team anymore. Would my successor scoop them all up in a greedy power grab but strip them of their projects and priorities, leaving them to linger in corporate purgatory? CEOs called in to replace founders had a habit of doing that. They were also known for cleaning house and firing anyone connected to the old regime. Industry reporters liked to cloak it as "establishing culture" or "realigning core value pillars" but the reality was that new leadership hated the idea of semi-loyal servants. They wanted people who'd kiss the rings and bow, and they didn't care if they terminated all senior staff and vaporized institutional knowledge in the process.

But I didn't need a staff. Not really. The next steps were all on me.

I scrolled through the messages, ignoring most of them. There was one notable exception: Neera Malik. The most amazing thing about Neera was that she didn't need me. She wasn't hitching her wagon to my stars, she had no interest in climbing over me, and she was competent to the extent that I knew she'd solve most world issues if someone gave her a crack at them.

Honestly, I was just waiting for the day when the United Nations called her up and requested her immediate presence to address global hunger, or broker some peace deals. And she'd have that shit managed within a few weeks. She was actually that good.

She was also one tough motherfucker but too stoic and reserved in her motherfucking for most to notice. Her story was simple, and more uncommon than anyone wanted to believe. Born in South Carolina shortly after her family emigrated from India. Grew up poor and socially isolated. Went to Stanford on a patchwork quilt of grants, scholarships, work-study, and loans. Odd jobs at odder start-ups in the Valley for a few years. Back to Stanford for business school. Found herself the unlikely right hand to a tech giant CEO after he judged her team in a case study competition and hired her on the spot. She left him and his company in better shape than either deserved, and then moved on to me shortly before my IPO.

None of that happened every day, and there was no underestimating Neera's drive and grit. She was proper like a white-shoe law firm, and had a knack for distilling issues down to their most essential parts. Whatever the thing was, she knew it long before anyone else and she knew how to tell me that without sending me into fits of rage.

Neera also knew how to tell me that the fits of rage had to stop, and—magically—imparted that information without bringing about another fit of rage. She gave it to me straight, and I appreciated that. We didn't pussyfoot around.

At one point—ages ago—there was chatter of us being romantically involved after we'd attended some local events together. But not together together. We simply traveled in the same vehicle and people assumed we were fucking in the back seat and boardroom. We had a good laugh at that.

Neera knew I was gay, but it wasn't the talk of the town. I didn't hide my sexuality when asked about it directly, but I didn't want it to precede me. I didn't want to be the gay CEO, the gay guy in tech's (mostly) straight guy world, the one who should expect interviews to include questions about coming out rather than the company's newest innovations. I didn't want my dick involved in my business, and that meant making sure my dick was no one's business.

As for Neera, I still didn't know who or what did it for her. Aside from offering the basics of her background, she didn't share many details from her private life. I took most of my clues in that area from her. Really, I took most of my clues in all areas from her.

So, I had to respond to her message.

I blew out a breath and powered down my phone. My belly was rumbling, and I figured it was time to show my face. I wandered down the seaside home's hallway in search of my host. It was a long, narrow expanse of knotty pine and stone that reeked of family with its wide old hearth and country kitchen. The window over the sink was adorned with little white curtains. Tiny anchors dotted the edges, and though the embroidery's color was long since faded, they hung straight and proud, as if carefully ironed just the other day.

That was the way of this home: old, lived-in, loved.

I expected to find a rosy-cheeked woman rolling out dough for biscuits or some hazel-eyed children, perhaps a Newfoundland pup eager for a belly-scratching.

But I found none of it.

Discovering that I was alone, I helped myself to a banana. It was late in the day—I'd slept long past breakfast and lunch—and I hadn't eaten since early yesterday.

"I see you're alive."

I turned, my mouth stuffed with a chunk of banana, and saw him. A sun-bleached Red Sox cap shielded most of his face. Owen of the gravelly voice and ripped-to-fuck body.

Men like him didn't exist in my world. They just didn't look like this, not even when they worked at it. They were products of CrossFit, "clean" eating, style consultants, image strategists. And Owen couldn't compare to any of that.

Thank God.

He wasn't affected by anything other than his environment, and I figured he liked it that way.

Fuck, I liked it that way.

Owen pointed to my face. "Stopped bleeding," he said. "Still looks like hell."

I nodded, gulping down the banana. That left the limp peel pinched between my fingers, and while I should've been focused on disposing of it, I couldn't tear my eyes off Owen. The hair poking out from under his ball cap was dark, nearly black, with a hint of white at the temples. His eyes shone green, and his skin was dark and freckled from endless hours in the sun.

"Yeah, well…" I said, my voice trailing off. I didn't know what to say but I wanted to keep talking with him.

"Do you think you need a doctor?" he asked.

I lifted my hand to my forehead but then realized I was still holding the damn banana peel. "No, no," I said. "It's fine. I'm fine. Everything's fine."

Owen chuckled, and his shoulders lifted along with the deep chest rumbling. "You're sure about that?"

I wasn't sure. I had a business to reclaim and new programming ideas to test, but for the first time since high school, I wanted to slow it all down. I wanted to take a break.

Not the bullshit PR cover-up sabbatical, but a vacation.

In Maine.

With a fisherman who didn't know anything about me.

"Yeah," I replied. "I'm good. Really good."

"Right."

Owen drew his fingertips over the dark scruff on his jawline, and shook his head as he watched me for a long moment. I had no idea what he was thinking, but I wanted to know. I wanted to know everything.

Grumbling under his breath, he crossed the room in long strides and plucked the peel from my hand. He called over his shoulder, "How about I give you that ride down to Bar Harbor now?"

No. No. This was crazy. Even if he looked like rough-palmed sex, he was straight. Probably. Maybe. Aw fuck, I couldn't tell. The longer I thought about it, the easier it was to convince myself that he was gay and a huge, husky gift to me from the sea. From Poseidon himself. But it wasn't like I had enough game to make anything happen. I'd earned my born-again virgin chip some time ago.

"I'm trying to keep a low profile," I started. He was in front of me again. Close enough to touch. Definitely close enough to pick up the scent of salty air and sunscreen. Oh, Jesus, take me now. "Is there any chance you'd rent that room?"

Owen crossed his arms over his chest, and the grim line of his mouth turned firm.

"There's what—five, six more weeks until the end of summer? What would that run? About thirty grand?" I fumbled for my wallet, knowing I had cash in there. "I don't have it all, but here's a couple hundred, a decent deposit."

At that, Owen laughed. It was a startled, uncomfortable sound. I wasn't making a great case for myself, what with me waving a fistful of cash around. I was desperate, and that much was obvious.

"More?" I asked. "That's not a problem. What's the going rate in this region? Whatever it is, I'll triple it. I don't want to take advantage."

I knew summer shares weren't cheap. I'd buy the whole fucking house—the town—if I could stay here. And stay with him. Even if that was more ill-fated than my attempt at sailing solo. Regardless of whether Owen was as straight as a mainsail and wouldn't give me a second glance, I needed to stop being Cole McClish, boy genius, tech wunderkind, dethroned CEO. Just for a little while.

"Put your money away," Owen warned.

His voice was deep and low, all coarse vibrations that I was hungry to hear against my skin. It was absurd to think he'd reciprocate, but that didn't stop me from wanting. From hoping.

"Look, that came out all wrong. My boat is in bad shape. You saw it. It probably needs a system overhaul before I can get out of the harbor. The replacement parts, they have to be custom ordered from a small supplier in California. They're a niche operation, and let's just say they aren't up to full capacity yet. And I'm going to need some specialized tradespeople who can handle the electrical work. It's a complicated situation," I said, holding my palms out in front of me.

Owen yanked the cap off and ran his hand through his hair. He blew out a breath and tossed the cap on the butcher block countertop. "Are you running from something?" he asked.

"No," I said with a forced laugh.

Most definitely. I'm running from the reality that I'm not meant to manage the day-to-day affairs of the company I founded. I'm running from the failure of my latest project, and the failures of five before that one. I'm running from the fear that I might have lost the vision that launched my career. I'm running from all the mistakes I can't seem to shake. I'm running from the cliché of being a sad, lonely boy billionaire.

"Of course not," I continued.

Owen wasn't buying it. "You're not in trouble with the law?" he asked. "Or…something like that? Crazy ex-wife? Child support?"

I knew it then, with absolute certainty. Whether he liked me or loathed me was a direct response to this stripped down version of myself. My money, my relative fame, my history—none of those factors could cloud his perspective. I had a blank slate.

"No. None of that. Not at all," I said. It sounded believable this time. "I'm taking some time to reevaluate my business and my priorities, and wanted to get off the grid. I'd be doing that right now if my navigation and electrical hadn't shit the bed." I gestured to him, my gaze as honest as I could manage given my lies of omission. "I'm serious about paying you."

Owen looked around, his eyes prowling over every surface in the kitchen save for me. I wasn't sure whether he was debating with himself or evaluating whether I'd fucked up the precise order of things in here. He was a right-angle enthusiast. Everything just so.

"I'm not going to take your money," he said at last. He scrubbed his palm over the back of his neck, and oh what fresh hell was this life. I needed to feel my hand on his neck right now. "But I could use some help."

Please say you need help massaging away some knots in your neck, or a charley horse.

"You name it," I said. I was really rooting for that charley horse. Maybe we could get to the bottom of the gay/straight question, or unbox some bi-curious feelings.

"My deckhand leaves for school this week," Owen said. "He goes to the University of New Hampshire. It's early, but he works in the dorms now. Some kind of advisor. He found out about this a few days ago. Or, he told me a few days ago. He's a bonehead, so good luck to UNH with him."

I blinked, not sure I understood my place in this story. "You need a deckhand?" I asked eventually.

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."