Page 6 of Weathering The Storm

A different sort of wave crashes over me. It feels a lot bigger than ten feet and a lot colder than forty-one degrees, even though it’s exactly six-foot-one and a toasty ninety-eight-point-six.

Nicolas Lundvall is the only captain I’ve ever met who cooks for his crew, and I’ve metmany.

I dropped out of high school at sixteen to start tendering, and I’ve worked everywhere you can work on a boat. I’ve gutted mackerel on a sleazy factory trawler. I’ve sweated my ass offin the engine room as an oiler. I’ve been a guide on saltwater fishing tours. I’ve worked on 20-foot skiffs and 160-foot crab boats. I’ve worked with captains who are too old and too young, too bullheaded and too laid back, and everything in between.

And then I took a job aboard theSuoja, and it wasn’t just the ocean that felt like home to me anymore. It was this ship, this crew. This captain.

Nick is one of a kind, that’s what he is.

He waits until everyone else is available to handle things on deck, then he makes his way down here—running on as tragically little sleep as the rest of us—and whips up something hearty and warm and packed with all those sweet, sweet fats, proteins, and carbs your body craves when you’re burning 10,000 calories in a day. And when he’s finished, he either takes his own meal back up to the bridge to relieve whoever’s driving, or he forgets to eat entirely.

I’ve known Nick for four years, so I know how he operates. I know I should’ve expected to see him prepping a meal now that my shift has started, but I still have to stand here and wait for my body to catch up to my brain.

Or, okay.I don’thaveto.

Nick has his back turned to me, his ash-blond hair sticking up all over the place thanks to hat-frizz. The cranking waves don’t affect him one bit while he stands at the counter, assembling a dozen roast beef sandwiches like a one-man deli during a New York City lunch rush.

He’s effortlessly steady, his hips rotating, shoulders shifting, knees bending to accommodate each pitch of the boat. A lifetime fisherman, his body attuned to absorbing the impact of the ocean.

He stoops, unlocking one of the cabinets to grab another loaf of bread, and I give myself one more second.

Just one more second to watch him from the shadows of the staircase.

Onelongsecond, because I don’t have much self-control when it comes to him. How am I supposed to, when he’s all winter-gray eyes beneath those tense brows, windburnt-pink cheeks against creamy skin, and rock-solid muscle hidden by far too many layers of clothing? When he’s bent over, and his sweatpants are so perfectly molded to his ass that I can see every innate twitch his muscles make to correct and maintain his balance?

My knees go weak. I wish I could drop onto them, right on the floor of the galley. Behind him. In front of him. Wish I could make his brow furrow deeper, in a different way.

Okay—yeah. It’s been longer than a second. But it’s hard to cut myself off when I’ve already wasted the last four years pining over a straight man. A straight man who’s diligent and kind and one-hundred percent oblivious about my obsession with him.

I take a deep breath and try to step into the galley like a man who’s spent the last sixteen years working on fishing boats, not a toddler learning to walk.

“Mornin’, Nicky!” I say, impressing myself when his eyes meet mine and the next swell doesn’t immediately toss my limp body into the dinette.

“Good morning” doesn’t really mean anything here. We all sleep and rise on different schedules, and you don’t get a scenic sunrise or chirping songbirds at 0500 in the Bering Sea. It’s still pitch-dark outside and will be for hours.

Nick glances at me. “Morning.”

“Need any help?”

“Oh no, don’t worry about it. I’m almost done here.”

He turns back to the task at hand, spreading mayo and mustard between the meat and cheese slices. So the bread doesn’t get soggy.

That’show thoughtful Nick is, and I was supposed tonotdevelop a crush on him? The odds were all stacked against me.

I start helping him anyway, wrapping up the sandwiches as he finishes them and packing them into a freezer bag. Not that it’s altruistic. In fact, it’s mostly self-serving. An excuse to spend a few more minutes with him. To stand close enough that his forearm brushes mine and his hip bumps into me as the boat rocks.

He could order me up to the deck and I would go, but I’m grateful he doesn’t.

“Sleep well?” he asks.

“Like a rock. No nap like a boat nap.”

He grunts in agreement, rolling a slice of roast beef and provolone together to snack while he works. “Glad to hear it.”

“Glad to see you actually eating.”

“What? Do I look malnourished to you?”