Owen

Cole didn't know the first thing about fishing.

That was obvious when I found him inspecting my traps before sunrise this morning. He'd opened and closed them, studying the mechanism like he'd never encountered anything like it, or he thought I'd be quizzing him later.

I couldn't understand why someone who didn't know fishing or boating would set out on a solitary sailing journey. The fact that he hadn't crashed that boat of his into any underwater rock formations or another vessel was nothing short of miraculous. And he'd been out there all alone. None of it made sense to me. I didn't know what he did for a living—he'd said he owned a firm that was "in tech" and left it at that, though he indicated he had enough flexibility to take an extended summer vacation.

Must be nice.

I'd watched him from the house, leaning against the kitchen sink while sipping coffee. Barely two days had passed and I was in over my head with this man. Never mind the fact that everything inside me ached when I was around him, but he pushed me. He found my soft spots and zeroed right in.

Maybe it only seemed that way. Maybe I was overly sensitive after Cole's comments about my life of sea and solitude. And maybe I was drowning in my own needy, hungry hormones.

I'd tucked that thought away, right along with the erection throbbing behind my zipper, and went to work. I knew what I was doing when I was out on the water, and not even the presence of this beautiful man and his questions could shake my focus.

But then he fell overboard.

"I sure as shit hope you're better at those technical things," I said as I reached out to grab his hand. How he'd fallen was a mystery to me. All I knew was that he was on the deck one minute and in the water the next.

"I am," he snapped as he gained his footing on the deck. He bent at the waist, his hands propped on his knees, and took several ragged breaths.

I fisted my hands to keep from touching him. I didn't know what else to do with myself. I wanted to skim my fingers down his chest, feel the rasp of his scruffy jaw against my palm, brush the salt water from his skin, strip away his soggy clothes. "What the hell happened? Do you need to wear a life vest? You know, you seem to have a lot of accidents."

Cole gestured to the horizon. "It's choppy out here," he said. "I lost my balance when you pulled to the left."

The breeze was stirring up some whitecaps, but they were wimpy. "Just wait until hurricane season hits," I said with a laugh. "You'll understand choppy then."

"Fantastic," Cole grumbled. He looked down at his soaked shirt, another slim-fitting polo with an alligator over his heart, and shook his head. Then, because the deities loved and hated me in equal measures, he peeled off the offending shirt.

Fuck me.

All the humor in my body dried up and blew away. Poof. Gone. In its place—and the place of every other emotion I could summon—was desire. Stick-to-your-ribs, prickle-the-back-of-your-neck, hot-and-sweaty-all-over, headboard-banging desire.

Cole stood there, his legs braced and his chest bare, and wrung the ocean from his shirt while I watched. In all honesty, I was gaping. It was rude and gratuitous, and I had a schedule to keep, but I couldn't stop myself.

He was blond and golden in a way that reminded me of Zack Morris, Endless Summer movies, and The Beach Boys. Freckles dotted his shoulders. There was a thick patch of hair on his chest, and a fuzzy trail running between his washboard abs. His shorts were dripping wet and plastered to his legs, and my chest swelled at the giddy hope he'd take those off too.

"Any chance you have an extra shirt lying around?" Cole asked, meeting my gaze. "I realize that I've demanded quite of a bit of your hospitality, what with requiring another rescue on top of everything else, but I'd be extremely appreciative."

I blinked at him. Twice. Gulped, and then cleared my throat. "What?" I asked.

Cole swept his hand down his torso. "My shirt is wet," he said, careful to enunciate each syllable. "Do you have one I could borrow?"

A growl unfurled in my throat. "What about your shorts? Those are wet, too."

He glanced down, shrugging. "An astute observation, Owen. But I didn't figure you'd have an entire wardrobe on board," he replied.

My previous deckhand, the college kid, didn't talk much. He knew the routine and did his job with limited commentary, and we both enjoyed that approach. He had his big-ass headphones and a steady stream of whatever the kids were listening to these days, and I had the waves, the wind, the radio. It worked for us. It worked for me.

But now I had Cole, and he came with an endless supply of questions—he wanted to know every little thing about lobsters, fishing, boats, oceans, tides, and Maine—and chatter. All these quips and smartass comments flew at me like a swarm of greenheads in July, and I couldn't keep up because I was busy imagining the taste of his skin.

And praying that he was gay. Hell, I'd be happy with bisexual. I'd scrub the memories of all those pretty young bi boys I'd met in Bar Harbor and Kennebunkport over the years. The ones who sucked cock like they'd declared it their major. The ones who preferred to sneak around because their parents wouldn't understand, or so they claimed. The ones who always went back to Yale or Penn, and their girlfriends, come September. The ones who returned summers later for their posh, picturesque weddings. The ones who taught me to stick with one-night stands and no last names because my heart was too tender for anything real.

Yeah, I'd forget all the promises I'd made myself.

When I didn't respond, Cole continued. "No sweat. I'm SPF'd. I can go without a shirt," he said, clapping his hands together.

I finally found my words, and they were harsh and low. "We have a schedule to keep," I said. "And we could do with less drama, McClish."

He held his hands out and quirked his brows up as if to say Who, me? He was cute when he wasn't busy wielding a shotgun or indulging his quarter-life crisis. He was charming in a half-smiling, eye-twinkling, chatty-Chad way. If I didn't keep my jaw clenched and my words to myself, there was no telling what would happen.

No, that wasn't true. Inaccurate. Erroneous. Completely false.

I knew what would happen. I'd laugh. Smile. Maybe even blush. I'd bend to Cole's light like a tulip to the sun, and for a few blessed moments, everything would be perfect.

But it wouldn't last. None of this would last, and it didn't matter that I had no idea what this was.

Cole crossed the deck and collected the hook-headed pole used to grab hold of the trap lines. He turned, the warm sunlight celebrating every line and curve on his chest, and a noise slipped from my lips. I couldn't hear much over the pulse pounding in my head but it sounded like Ohhh-mmm-ahhh.

"I'll grab this one," he called. He leaned over the edge of the boat, his taut body stretching as he yanked the buoy closer. It was a thing of beauty, and it would have been a glorious moment if Cole wasn't seconds away from taking another dip in the ocean. He still didn't understand how to keep himself balanced against the weight of water.

I raced to his side but it was already too late. He lost his leverage and pitched overboard trying to regain it.

"Fuck me," I muttered under my breath.

Cole swam to the surface and shook the water from his hair. "I don't know what happened there," he said.

He looked up at me with bright eyes as if he was unaware that he'd upended my life in the short days since his arrival. As if he could take a header into the water—twice—without me wanting to spank and then swaddle him. As if he didn't know I'd spent the past two nights squeezing my eyes shut and forcing my brain to focus on anyone but him while bringing myself to silent, unsatisfying orgasms. As if I could survive this newfound companionship without coming apart at the seams.

"I don't know how any of this happened," I said through a sigh.