Cole

"So, ah, it's Cole," Owen started, "right?"

I set the plates on the table and glanced up at him. "Yeah," I said, a whip of defensiveness in my words. There was no reason for it, other than my harebrained attempt at pretending to be anyone but myself.

Owen placed the salad bowl on the center of the table and pulled large wooden spoons from his back pocket. He'd tucked them there when we'd gathered the dishes and cutlery in the kitchen before transporting everything to the porch. "Just Cole? Like Cher? Or Rihanna?" He peered at me. "I guess you could make that work."

He sat at a small, weathered table, and I followed. My last name was stuck in my throat, thick and paralyzing like a mouthful of too hot coffee. The miserable part was that the coffee had to go somewhere—I had to swallow or spit—even if both options were equally unpleasant.

"McClish," I said quickly. It was more of a croak, a rough, guttural sound that I'd never be able to intentionally re-create.

Owen nodded, and busied himself with dressing the salad. I braced for the impact of recognition, the ten-second delay in which he'd put the pieces together and wonder aloud where he'd heard that name before. And then I'd be screwed.

"All right then, Cole McClish," Owen said as he heaped servings of salad, potato, and steak on our plates. He waved at me, an indication that I should eat. "This is a nice salad. Pretty spiffy how you cut those cucumbers."

"Yeah," I mumbled, staring at a forkful of lettuce and tomato. "Glad you like it."

Owen bobbed his head as he chewed. "Mmhmm."

He didn't offer another word. Not even a murmur. He really, really didn't know me. I couldn't believe that I had this incredible gift, this moment to be the version of myself that I wanted instead of the one I'd become, and I was experiencing it with a man too fascinating and desirable to be real. A breath whooshed past my lips, fast and ragged like I'd taken a kick to the chest. I covered it up with an exaggerated cough, and then dug into my dinner.

I worked hard at keeping my gaze trained on my plate as I didn't want to stare at my host. I mean, I wanted to stare and there was a whole lot of goodness to stare at, but I was still treading water here. I didn't know Owen and—as I'd discovered—he didn't know me, and that meant I had to exercise some of those manners Neera beat into me.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Owen asked, shaking me from my thoughts.

"Yes," I agreed automatically. I'd been staring at the crescent-shaped cove without seeing, my thoughts deep in debate over whether he hauled in those lobster traps shirtless. God, I hoped so.

"I don't have a lot of material requirements," he continued, "but I don't think I could live here without a porch." He pointed his beer bottle at the floor-to-ceiling screens that separated the deck from the elements. "You just can't appreciate this view from indoors."

I wiped my hands on a napkin and tucked it beside my plate. "How long have you lived here?"

Owen sipped his beer, his head moving from side to side as if he was digging back through memories to find the start of his life in this remote corner of the world.

"A little more than fifteen years now," he said. He leaned out of his chair, jerking his chin in the direction of the slim lighthouse nestled into the high point of the cove. "One family maintained the lighthouse for almost two hundred years. The DaSilvas. They worked on the water, of course. But the younger generation wasn't interested in the upkeep. Didn't want to get involved with lobstering either." He rubbed his chin, pausing for a beat. Owen stared at the rocky cove as he spoke, and his words cooled with a bit of melancholy. "I know it's not for everyone, but it's not right for traditions to die out like that."

"Is lobstering a family tradition for you?" I asked.

"No, not my family, but I seem to think anyone who has lived on these shores has a bit of it in their bones," Owen said.

I nodded though I didn't understand his logic. The world wasn't composed of people who felt compelled to follow their parents' footsteps anymore. There was no occupation-via-birthright.

"My mom was a high school guidance counselor before she retired. My dad worked in logging before he lost his hand," he continued. He offered a half smile with that tidbit, and I had to fight back an uncomfortable laugh. "Everyone who works in logging long enough loses something. Thankfully, it wasn't his head."

"I can understand why you wouldn't follow in his footsteps," I said. "The desire to keep your limbs and all. How did you get into lobstering then?"

"I bought this land, and the boat, from the last lobsterman in the DaSilva family," Owen said. "He took me on as a summer deckhand when I was twelve, and taught me everything." He met my gaze. "It's important work. Most people don't think much of it, but it's important to care for the sea." He gestured to the lighthouse again. "Times might change, but some things should remain the same."

"And it's only you here?" I asked, tempting him to tell me there was more to his life than lobsters and screened-in porches. He nodded. "For the past fifteen years? That's insanity. I'd lose my fucking mind if I was alone this much. Do the walls respond when you talk to them, or is the conversation one-sided?"

"I like it that way," he said, each word rougher than the one before. "I enjoy being alone." He stared at me, his eyes narrowed in warning. "I prefer quiet. I hope that's not a problem for you."

I bobbed my head, in agreement or acceptance or some acknowledgement that I wasn't to question Owen's life choices any further. I was the guest here, and if I wanted to stay a guest, I'd shut the fuck up.

So much for those manners.

"The work on your vessel," he started, his voice low and heavy, "it will take weeks? Or months?"

Thanks to the kindness of the harbormaster, my boat was docked in Talbott's Cove's marina. Despite my willingness to pay above the market rate for his trouble, he rented the slip for pennies. I didn't understand this town or these people.

"Weeks," I replied, but quickly thought better of it. I was forever overcommitting on outcomes, underestimating timelines. "Although that depends on a few factors. It won't take too long to get the parts, and I think I can do some of the work myself—" Owen snorted. It was as if he knew I had a history of overpromising, too. "I'll have to hire contractors for the electrical system. There's no telling how long that could take."

Owen looked out at the water, nodding slowly. "All right."

After that, we ate in silence, the only sounds coming from waves lapping against the shore and beetles hissing as they doddled around the exterior lights. We cleared the table, and then washed and dried the dishes without sharing a single word. Once the kitchen was tidy—and right angled—Owen headed to the porch, book in hand.

He stopped at the door, his head turned in my direction but his eyes cast down. Avoiding me. "We hit the water before sunrise," he said. "Four fifteen. Be ready."

With that, the door snapped shut behind him. The message was clear: I wasn't to follow.

I heeded that message, but I also lurked in the kitchen. The view from the window over the sink allowed me to watch as Owen settled into a chair, swept his gaze over the horizon, and thumbed open his book.

So many contradictions in one man. He craved solitude but offered me—a stranger as strange as they came—a temporary home. He grunted and growled as his primary means of communication but stocked his bookshelves with great works of literature and read them. He believed in tradition but didn't seem concerned with passing his on to another generation.

I studied him for several minutes, and debated joining him out there. But I knew that urge was selfish—I wanted to be close to him. Figure him out. Crawl inside his mind. Then, crawl into his lap.

Instead, I returned to the room where I'd slept last night. I closed the door behind me and pivoted in a slow circle, taking in the red, white, and blue quilt, whitewashed pine walls, and rustic chest of drawers.

I wasn't special here. I wasn't gifted or talented, or remarkable in any way save for my ability to fuck things up. Part of me wanted to leave. Order a private plane to the nearest airstrip and get the fuck out of this small town before Owen realized he was better off without a roommate.

But another part—a bigger, hungrier part—wanted to stay. To be here and be no one in particular. To live like a regular person.

I stripped down to my boxer briefs and slipped between the sheets. I needed to rest up if I was going to work on a lobster boat first thing tomorrow.