Page 18 of On Dry Land

“Good news? About your boat?”

I look up, meeting Spencer’s eye. I’d say there is no way he could have read anything from my facial expression just now, yet apparently he must have. I’m usually better at hiding.

“A sternman on the boat that came to assist was injured. He’s in the hospital, but doing well enough to go home soon.”

“Oh no. I’m glad he’s okay,” Spencer replies, somehow managing to sound sincere.

“Me too,” I murmur, replying with a quick thank-you to Shiloh before checking Lex’s message. Spencer’s attention feels like a physical caress, eyes steady and watching. This time, he must not glean any strong emotion from my expression. He remains silent until I bring it up myself. “Looks like the mechanic can come a little earlier to look at the Maiden.”

“The Maiden Seas,” he says softly. I pause in replying to Lex, looking up at him. “I like that name.”

“Why?” I ask, curious despite myself. It’s just a name. The name the boat came with, in fact. I’ve never given it more than a passing thought.

“A maiden voyage is the first trip, right? The first time you set sail. And you never touch the same water twice, so every time you go out, you’re sailing on maiden seas.”

He smiles a little bit, eyes warm in the golden light bathing the living room. I’m unsure what to say to that, unable to think of anything cutting or flippant. Sailing on maiden seas. Clearing my throat, I look away and out across the yard, watching the trees along the property move gently in the breeze.

“What time are you meeting the mechanic?” Spencer asks into the silence. I check my phone, noting the time.

“In an hour.”

“I’ll get out of your hair, then. Thanks for the coffee.” He rises to standing, glancing uncertainly at me before looking toward the kitchen. “Shall I wash the mug?”

“You can leave it there. I’ll deal with it.” I wave a hand at the island and push up from the chair. Ridiculously, I’m disappointed that Lex is able to meet me early. I want to sit in the sun with a stranger a little longer.

I walk to the back door, sliding it open and stepping to the side so he can slip through. I look out across the yard toward the guesthouse and realize it at the same moment he does. I only offered him the one night, and it’s passed.

“I’ll be gone by the time you come back,” he promises, and I’m treated to another sick swoosh of regret. He really would be gone, I know. Perhaps for good. Sailing on to his own maiden seas, as it were.

“You’re welcome to stay,” I tell him. His eyes snap up to mine. I shrug, gesturing toward the cottage. “Nobody else is using it. I can teach you how to run the espresso machine.”

“Same rules apply?” he clarifies, gaze searching.

“Same rules. You have nothing I want or need.”

He laughs, the sound sudden and sharp in the still morning air. This time, the smile remains on his face long enough for me to see a slightly chipped tooth.

“Okay, well…maybe I’ll stay until one of the Libby Cottages opens up. She said it might be soon.”

“Sure.” I shrug, uncaring. I would rather cut off my own foot than live in town like that. If the options were the Libby’s or the woods, I’d erect a tent.

Needing to put some clothes on and head to the wharf to meet Lex, I step back inside and start closing the door. Spencer takes two steps into the yard and stops.

“Dryden?”

“Mm?”

“Can I come with you? To see the boat?”

Chapter Nine

SPENCER

Ispeed walk back to the cottage. My bag—packed and ready to go—is resting next to the door where I’d left it. Glad I thought ahead and ate two peanut butter sandwiches this morning, I check to make sure the bananas and orange are still at the top of the pack. I don’t want them to get squished or bruised if I can help it. Satisfied, I close it back up and sling the whole thing over my shoulders. Locking up the cottage behind me, I walk around the perimeter of the big house and am standing, waiting, next to the Porsche for a full twenty minutes before Dryden comes out.

He’s changed from the lounge clothes into simple jeans and another turtleneck sweater. The open jacket pulled on over the top looks soft, like suede or sheepskin, and is a buttery caramel color. He looks casual and effortlessly cool, like he really did just throw the clothes on without a thought for how they might look paired together or on him. I suppose, when you look like he does, you don’t really have to worry about things working for you. Everything looks good.

“Not coming back?” he asks, dark eyebrow arched in question at the backpack.