ADEN

I’m always amazed by how different the sun feels at the same temperature in different locales. How the same ball of flaming gas can feel like a blowtorch blasting against me when I’m belly down in the dirt staring through the scope of my rifle, and a warm blanket when I’m on the boat, hunched over an ice chest pulling out a cold beer.

Granted, no one’s trying to kill me when I’m grabbing a beer, I suppose that could be a contributing factor.

“Where’re you headin’, Colt?” Jenkins’s rusty cough caused by a lifetime of cheap cigars comes closer.

Somewhere far the fuck away from here. “San Clemente Island.”

He smells like stale smoke, bait, and wood rot, like any old-timer fisherman should. “Yellowtail’s bitin’.”

I crack open the pop-top on my beer and help myself to that first refreshing swig that soothes a bit of the fury left over from my encounter with Celia this morning. “You putting in your dinner order?”

“Damn straight.” He wobbles off, half hunched over from years of slinging fish. “I’ll be at the Office.”

His unsteady gate down the dock reminds me of what Celia looked like negotiating the planks in those ridiculous heels.

What the hell does Cal see in that woman? I mean, besides her being attractive, which she most definitely is, but not in an obvious way. I suppose my uncle being a dirty old man, he may have been able to look past her uptight attitude. Where’s the girl from the picture? I didn’t see even a hint of the carefree smile that screams of a well-loved life. And really, how can she be pissed at me for asking questions about photos she has proudly displayed in her place? Makes no fucking sense.

And her response, bagging on the military, the men who’ve become more family to me than my own blood, the men who died horrific deaths defending her freedom to be a bitch. She’s got some fucking nerve.

I bring the beer to my lips and my hand shakes uncontrollably. Shit. I squeeze the can so hard it dents and drain what’s left of the beer. And here I was doing so well.

I go about readying the boat for a day at sea, away from people who only manage to grate against my nerves just by breathing. There’s something so calming about being on the ocean, as far away from the desert and valleys that constantly haunt me. When I’ve got a pole in my hands they don’t shake, and my thoughts don’t drift to all I did wrong and all I lost.

With the bait hold full of sardines I check my gas gauge, poles, and step on the dock to untie. It’s when I’m untying the bow I hear a voice that makes my skin vibrate, whether it’s with interest or irritation, I’m not sure.

“Aden!”

Fuck. How the hell did she get past the gate? Maybe if I pretend I don’t see her she’ll leave.

I toss the tie-up ropes into the boat and move to the other side, but she intercepts me. Persistent little thing. “What do you want, Celia?”

She opens those thick lips, closes them, licks them, and fuck, I can’t take much more of that. Is it bad that I want to suck the mouth off a girl I can’t stand? I sidestep her and move to untie the other side of the boat. She follows on my heels.

“Aden, please, I’m—”

I get right in her face. Damn if the way she stumbles over herself isn’t cute as shit. “You’re what.”

She gasps and her wide green eyes move from my nose to my mouth to my chin and I curse under my breath because it feels like she’s stroking me with them. “I’m sorry.”

“Okay.” I slide around her again and climb on board.

Her arms drop to her sides and she watches as if she expects me to say more, but the truth is, I’ve never been good at relationships, friendships, fuckships, all ships I pretty much fail at. Boats I know. Boats I’m good at.

I fire up the engine.

“Wait, Aden!” She scrambles around to the stern and grips the side.

What the fuck is she doing?

She throws a leg up over the rail—I dart to the edge and grab her to wrangle her flailing body on board. “Are you fucking crazy? You can’t jump on a boat when the prop’s on!”

She pushes her shoulder-length hair behind her ears, her face pale.

Staring up at me, there’s something in her eyes, a vulnerability that calls to every male cell in my body to fix whatever it is inside her that’s broken, which is fucking bullshit. I don’t even know this girl.

I release her shoulders and stomp back to the cockpit to shut off the prop, then whirl on her. “Get off.”

Her eyebrows pinch together and she tucks her chin in, something I’m beginning to notice she does often. “You’re kicking me off your boat?”

“I’m going fishing, so unless you feel like playing deckhand all day, yes. Get off.”

She rolls those lips between her teeth and I have to look away to squelch the desire to kiss this obnoxious broad. She turns around suddenly and heads to the stern but freezes with her hand on the latched door. Then she pulls something from the waistband of her skirt, something small. She looks down at whatever it is, her shoulders slump, and she turns back toward me. “I’ll stay.”

“What?!” Is she insane?

She defies everything I thought I picked up from her and stomps to my side. “I’m staying.”

“I think you’re making a mistake.”

She rolls a silver coin between her fingers before tucking it back into her waistband. “I think you’re probably right.”

Fuckin’ hell, this woman! “Fine.” I turn and throw open the floor storage to snag a faded orange life vest. It smells like mildew but it’ll do the job. I hold it out to her. “Put this on. You wear it at all times.”

The light breeze brings the scent right to her and she crinkles up her nose.

“Do you, um . . . I mean, is it possible to get a cleaner one?”

I thrust it toward her.

Using her fingers like pincers she takes it and slides her arms through the holes. Acting like she’ll contract some fatal disease by touching it, she fumbles with the straps and clasps.

“Fuck, this’ll take all damn day.” I push her hands out of the way and fasten the straps, tightening them until I’m satisfied it won’t come off.

Then I turn my back on her to fire up the engine and pull out of the slip. “I got two rules on my boat,” I yell to her so she can hear me. “One, deckhands bait line. That’s it.”

She doesn’t reply but as I negotiate steering the boat away from the dock I catch her slowly sliding into a seat.

“Two, all deckhands drink beer on my boat.”

I peek down to see her arms wrap around her middle as the wind throws her hair around her face. Poor girl looks miserable. I grin to myself.

This might actually be fun.

I always did love a good torture session.

SAWYER

I’m on a boat. A real boat headed out into the middle of the ocean with a man I’ve known for twelve hours and managed to insult. Despite my apology, he’s hardly looked me in the eye. If the firm set of his jaw is any indication, I’d say he’s still pissed.

I don’t have time to concentrate on that. Right now all I can worry about is the two possible outcomes brought to me by using Celia’s stupid effing coin—I’m either going to throw up all over myself or die.

The farther away from land we go the more intense the ocean swells get, tossing the boat around with increasing aggression. Every muscle in my body is flexed to the point of pain, my hair is a massive crown of knots, and no matter how many times I try to slick it down, the wind manages to pull it back up. Not to mention I was not at all dressed for a day on a boat, not that I’d even know what’s appropriate for that, but my guess is a long skirt, tank top, and flip-flops only works in Ralph Lauren ads.

Okay, so sue me for wanting to look nice when I apologized. I stared at my clothing options for an hour before I finally dug through Celia’s closet looking for something halfway between sexy conservative and full-blown hooker. The skirt is long but sexy and tie-dyed in different shades of blue. I paired it with a navy blue spaghetti-strap tank that accentuates what little curves I have. The downside of the tank is my pasty skin is going to get fried out here in the sun. That’s okay; a sunburn I can get over, but death is hard to come back from.

I attempt to soothe my nerves by coming up with a plan for every possible scenario. Aden’s boat is equipped with shelter for a hurricane, a life ring if I go overboard, a bathroom for peeing or vomiting—whichever comes first. On cue my gut rolls in protest.

I feel full even though I haven’t eaten anything but a muffin and a cup of coffee, and yet something tells me if I coughed hard enough I’d lose everything in my stomach including, possibly, the organ itself.

Stop being such a wimp, Sawyer. Celia would do this, there’s no reason I can’t do it too.

The internal pep talk continues for a while until land fades and there’s nothing but water three hundred and sixty-five degrees around us. I don’t know how long we’ve been going, but the sound of the roaring engine and slap of the waves against the boat start to lull me to an acceptance of my fate. I’m stuck on a boat at sea with nothing but a contagious flotation device to protect me. If the ocean doesn’t kill me, whatever creeping fungus living in this thing around my neck will.

My eyes scan the water encompassing the vessel, keeping a lookout for a huge dorsal fin. The ominous du-dum, du-dum, du-dum dudum plays over and over in my head. This boat does kind of remind me of Quint’s. My pulse speeds. I’m going to die. I curse Celia for putting this damn coin in my hand. This was a mistake, a huge mistake.

I’m breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth when the boat slows and the engine cuts. Aden’s powerful legs come into view and I tilt my head back to peer up at him.

His light brown hair is streaked lighter in places from the sun, and though it’s not long enough to be a mess from the wind, it’s angled away from his forehead and strong brow line.

He pushes his sunglasses up. “You look like you’re gonna puke.”

Hearing the word calls the urge to do just that even closer to the surface. “It’s a possibility.”

He grunts, then turns and ducks into the belly of the boat. I stand up and sway with the rocking of the waves, which does nothing for my stomach. I grip the railing and look down into the water. It’s dark blue and so deep there’s no way I’d be able to see in time to react if a shark jumped up and pulled me under—oh God.

I stumble back at the thought and hit a solid wall of muscle. Steel bands come around my waist to steady me and I’m hit with the scent of soap, sunblock, and beer.

“Sit.” He motions to a padded bench seat that runs along the side of the deck.

I start to ask if we’re safe out here, but decide that’s not something Celia would say, so instead I nod. He guides me there, then hands me a little white pill and a bottle of water.

“What is it?”

“It’ll help with the motion sickness.”

I try not to think too hard on the fact that there’s no way he washed his hands before palming the tablet. “Oh, thank you.” I stare at the pill and prepare to toss it to the back of my throat, but again . . . I don’t know this guy. What if he’s trying to drug me so he can push me off the boat and leave me out here to drown? I’m still staring at it when suddenly his nose appears just inches from mine. Bracing his hand on the railing at my back he glares at me with a fierceness that makes me cower.

“Regardless of what you think you know about my integrity, Celia Forrester, I would never . . . ever . . . hurt a woman, understand?”

His nearness combined with his rumbled demand has me frozen beneath his gaze.

“Tell me you understand that.”

My eyelids flutter.

His expression turns sad. “Cece . . .”

I startle at his calling me by my sister’s nickname.

“Cal adores you. You’re practically family.” He pushes an errant hair that got stuck between my lips off my face.

I lean forward, drawn to his tender touch.

“I’m sorry about the conclusions I drew from seeing your photos. And I’m sorry about being a dick earlier. Just . . .” God, his voice is so soft, so vulnerable. “Take the pill.”

His command is firm and the sincerity I hear in his voice is impossible to deny.

“Here’s to swimming with bow-legged women,” I mumble, and toss the pill to the back of my throat, then wash it down with enough water to get the job done without overfilling my sensitive stomach.

“Was that a quote from Jaws?”

I smile and tug on the collar of my infectious life vest. Truth is, while Celia was out seeing the world, I was home experiencing the Hollywood version of it. “Yeah.”

He stares at my lips until I shift uncomfortably.

“Right.” He pushes up and puts some much needed space between us. “That should kick in pretty quick.”

“Thank you.”

He squints out into the ocean then tilts his chin. “See that?”

Gripping the rail firmly to make sure I don’t topple over the edge, I follow his line of sight to see a cluster of birds diving into the water. “Are they—” I’m robbed of breath when I see my worst fear materialize in the distance. “Sharks!” I clutch my gut and drop back down to my seat, my pulse pounding in my neck. “Oh God, we’re gonna die!”

“Porpoises.” He moves around me with all the control and elegance of a man who is comfortable negotiating the unsteady footing of a boat out in open sea. “And they don’t kill people.”

It’s a good thing he never met my sister because he’d know right away I’m not her. Hell, she’d already be swimming circles around the boat, probably naked, with a bag of old bread to feed the fish with. She sure as heck wouldn’t be swallowed up by her fear, balled into a semi-fetal position on the verge of passing out.

“The porpoises and birds follow the schools of sardines.” He grabs a fishing pole and messes with the thin line. “The yellowfin are below the sardines.”

I blow out a long relieved breath. “Not sharks. Okay.” I can do this. What would Celia do? “So how do we catch them?”

“You are a deckhand. You won’t be catching anything.”

“So . . . what will I be doing?”

My question seems to intrigue him. He smiles. It’s slight, slow, and sends butterflies through my belly. “Stand up.”

He leans the tall pole against a single chair sitting in the middle of the back of the boat. I stand and wobble a bit with the instability of the rocking waves. His warm callused hands grip my shoulders to steady me. “You good?”

“Yeah, I think so.” I don’t know what’s making me dizzier, the ocean or his proximity.

He steps back and runs his eyes down my body in a clinical way and I’m surprised to feel disappointed in his lack of interest at what he sees. “This won’t do.” He drops to a squat at my feet and cups my calves over the cotton of my skirt.

I sway. My hand shoots out to brace myself against his shoulder. He runs those big hands up the back of my legs, taking the fabric with them and stopping behind my knees that are now practically knocking together with nerves.

“What’re you—”

With a jerk to the material he bunches it between my thighs and ties it in a knot, front to back. Great, now I look like I’m wearing a saggy diaper. “Much better.”

Reluctantly I drop my hand from his shoulder so he can stand.

“Not that I don’t appreciate the effort, but a skirt isn’t appropriate for deckhand work.” He stares at me for another second, then turns to the doorway that leads into the cabin and snags something from inside. He shakes open a pair of dark sunglasses, classic black Ray-Bans, and slides them on my face. Then he pops an old faded green ball cap on my head. It smells like dead fish and has sweat rings circling the base. I’m tempted to throw it off and douse my hair in hand sanitizer, but what would Celia do?

I reach up and tug the hat farther down my forehead, hoping he doesn’t notice my fingers tremble while the fear of lice and random skin diseases flitter through my mind.

“There. Now you’re ready.” He winks, then pulls the pole from its lean-to and motions for me to join him at the back corner of the boat.

I follow and he flips open a lid, then directs me to peek inside. I shuffle up to his side and peer into the container to see it’s filled with water and little fish.

“Bait.”

I swallow back a gag. “They’re alive.”

He chuckles. “These big fish ain’t stupid.” He reaches in and snags a sardine about half the size of his palm. It flips around in his grip, its mouth gaping. “You wanna hook it here, right behind the eye.”

“What?” I step back. “I’m not doing that.”

“Of course you are.” He tilts his head and meets me with a glare that I wish was more intimidating than it was attractive because I’m really trying to be tough here, but when he looks at me like that it’s impossible. “You jumped on my boat, I gave you a chance to get off, and you chose to stay. No one gets a free ride. You’re here, you work.” He holds up the fish, swiftly slides the hook into the thing’s head, and smiles. “There.” He heads to the opposite side of the boat and with a powerful flick of his arm he casts the line out toward the cluster of porpoises. He drops the pole into a metal tube attached to the backside rail, then grabs another rod.

My stomach drops.

“Your turn.” He shoves it into my hands.

“You’re crazy.”

His eyes narrow on me again, but this time he’s looking deeper, searching for something I’m glad he can’t see behind the dark shades. “She eats raw oysters . . . runs with bulls, but she can’t bait a hook.”

I’m Celia.

Be Celia.

“Give me that!” I swipe the line from him.

“Careful, that hook will go right through your hand.”

I bite back a snarky retort and hover over the small pool of little swimming fish. “So what, I just . . .” This is so gross. “Grab one?”

“That’s right. The faster the better.”

I lick my lips and feel his eyes on me, but I focus on the slimy scaled creatures that stand between me and my goal. I imagine the step-by-step instructions written out like a to-do list.

Number one, snag a fish.

My hand plunges into the tank. I miss. “Dammit.”

“That’s all right, try again. A little faster.”

I nod and focus, then plunge again, faster. My fingers wrap around a slippery body but it wiggles free. “Crap!”

He pushes up behind me, the heat of his chest and abs through his thin tee warming the back of my arm. “Like this.” His hand dives and snaps back with a fish. “Fast.” He drops the victim back in. “Try again.”

I belly right up to the tank. My pulse roars but with something different. Something I’m not used to feeling. It’s unease, but it lacks the bite of fear. It feels like . . . excitement.

My hand darts into the water. Snaps back. And . . . “I did it!” I shove my fist into the air and whirl around to Aden. “I got one!”

His lips stretch into a full, wide grin and he laughs. “You did! Good job.”

I feel energized by conquering something I feared that even the possibility of sharks just below my feet can’t wipe the grin off my face. I mentally check off my number one. Moving to number two. “Now what?”

“Hook it.” He points to a spot on the fish’s head. “Right there.”

I rake my teeth along my lower lip. He makes a funny sound in his throat.

“What?”

He clears his throat. “What?”

“You made a noise. Did I do something wrong?”

His eyes dart to my lips, then to the hook in my hand. “No, nothing. Go ahead.”

I turn back to the second task on my mental list.

Hook the fish. I line the sharp point up with the silvery top of the creature’s head. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper. With a squeal and a retch I slide the hook through, surprised at how easily it goes in. “I did it.”

“Like a pro.”

A spot of red on my hand catches my eye. “Ugh!” I shake my hand like a wet dog, barely containing a full-blown freak-out.

He grabs my wrist midair and presses it to his firm belly. “Blood.”

Panic seeps from my body with every swipe against his rippled abdomen as he cleans my palm on his shirt.

“All gone.” He drops my hand and grabs a pole, leaving me to fight off an unmanageable blush. “All right, deckhand, it’s time to pull in some fuckin’ fish.”

He demonstrates how to cast the line, but tells me casting isn’t my job and directs me to a seat.

“You take the fighting chair.” He helps me up into a seat that is fully equipped with padded armrests, drink holders, and even a place to put my feet. “Good, now open your legs.” I almost expect there to be some kind of hidden innuendo in his request, but sadly he’s all business. “The pole rests here between your thighs.” He places the handle into a metal tube. “Beautiful.”

I shift uncomfortably. “I thought you said I couldn’t fish.”

He leans against the side of the boat, his gaze cast out over the water. “You’re not. You’re watching that line for me and if you get a bite I’ll take the chair.”

“You don’t trust me to reel it in myself?”

“These aren’t lake trout, Celia. These fish could weigh hundreds of pounds. That chair is made for the hours-long fight it takes to reel them in.” He stares at me and shakes his head. “Something’s missing.” He pops an ice-cold can of beer and slides it into my hand.

“Oh, no thanks. I don’t really like beer.”

“My boat. My rules.” He takes a swig from his can, then nods to mine. “You drink.”

It’s hot. The beer’s cold. It’s something Celia would do. I tilt my head back and take a gulp. Huh . . . not bad. Why didn’t I like beer?

The sun feels great on my bare shoulders and arms. I have a moment of anxiety where I think like Sawyer, think I don’t need skin cancer, or a few thousand more freckles that will come and never go away after a day in the sun.

But rather than flip to decide what I should do, I go with the least responsible choice and close my eyes as I soak in the rays.

And damn, but maybe Celia wasn’t totally wrong. In some situations, being carefree isn’t half bad.