Page 85 of Between the Lines

I shuffle around the cockpit, prepping the sails.

“Maybe some. But I’ve only taken this boat out three times in the last year.”

Fia shakes her head at me. “That’s so sad. Well now that I know you own a boat, sailor, that’s going to change.”

She stands on the side bench, already at ease, her shoes kicked off somewhere. She looks pretty damn cute in her loose white tank and cutoff jean shorts. I come over, wrapping my arm around her bare legs as Fia laughs.

“Okay, Captain, tell me what to do!”

“Go chill on the sunbathing net up there and enjoy doing absolutely nothing,” I instruct, but Fia scrunches her nose.

“No, really, I couldn’t do that. Let me help.”

“It wasn’t an option,” I reply, setting her down next to me. “You’re on the clock, remember? And I’m telling you to go relax.”

She rakes her eyes up my body, her palms in the air. “Okay, okay.”

Carefully, Fia climbs onto the tarped net over the water, which slaps lightly against the sides of the boat.

I continue to move around the boat with a smile and newfound purpose—to give her a day to remember.

“Okay, wait.” I sit up to look at Fia, who’s resting on the edge of the net, feet dangling in the ocean water. “You’re telling me, if you could only eat one food for the rest of your life, you’d choose a bagel and cream cheese?”

“Yes!” Fia exclaims, voice raspy as she chuckles.

I don’t even know how we got onto this topic, but that’s the thing about talking to Fia—you lose track of time.

She pulls her feet out of the water, knees to chest, and rotates towards me, green eyes sparkling in the late-morning sun. “But not just any bagel. The kind I’m talking about are the best you’ve ever had.”

We’ve been bobbing above the shallow water, moored ten feet from the sandy shore of Masonboro Island, for about an hour now. I thought we’d jump off and swim or explore, but Fia liked sitting here in our bathing suits, basking in the sun.

I had no complaints about that.

“I’m listening,” I muse.

Fia adjusts her sunglasses and takes a deep breath, like what she’s about to tell me is essential information.

If it’s coming out of her mouth, it is, to me.

“About thirty minutes away, there’s a tiny, unassuming bagel shop called All Things Holey, and they have the biggest, chewiest, most orgasmic bagels ever.” She lifts her brows, a smile playing on her lips. “When I was pregnant with Daisy, I ate them by the bagful. My sister used to bring me the rosemary and sea salt ones, with extra cream cheese—we are talking, like, an inch thick—and it would make my entire day better. So yes, if I was on a deserted island, I’d eat that every day,” she concludes with a succinct nod.

“Well, shoot, I learn something new every day about you.” I run a hand through my hair, and she reaches out, tapping my sun-tanned forearm.

“Your turn.”

“Alright . . . I’d probably eat Pop-Tarts.”

Fia lurches forward, bursting with a laugh.

“Pop-Tarts!? How old are you, five?”

I raise my finger in the air. “Listen, I have my reasons, miss ten inches of cream cheese.”

“No, please, elaborate,” Fia says with a grin, and I have to peel my eyes off her lips. It feels like she’s been smiling for hours now, and I can’t get enough of it.

“You know those crazy people who think a single grain of sugar will kill you? That’s my mom. Growing up, I wasn’t allowed any sugar, not even maple syrup on my pancakes.”

“No!” she gasps, hand over heart.