Page 9 of Forbidden Forward

Soon I’m directing Miss Harper toward my boat, which is the closest shelter available. This is a mistake of epic proportion, but I can’t leave her out here to get soaked. Plus, these boards turn slick when they get too wet. So I hop on board, turn, and take her backpack from her. Holding out my hands to help her climb in, I spot her shoes.

“Take your shoes off,” I order.

“What?” she screeches back at me.

I point with one hand as I’m reaching out the other to assist. “Your shoes. Black soles. Take them off.”

She glares at me.

I drop my hand. “Or stay out here.” I don’t give a shit. I shouldn’t let her onto my boat anyway. Logic must prevail—hers, certainly not mine—because she toes off her shoes and tosses them into my boat.

Well, hell. I can’t leave her standing on the dock barefoot. I hold out both hands again, but she ignores my offer, opting to grab onto the stainless-steel pushpit and hoist herself onto the swim platform instead. What is it with women refusing my help? The definition of “women” in this case is Peggy and Harper’s sister because they’re the only two I’ve ever let board the Gail.

It soon becomes apparent this woman doesn’t have sea legs. The boat shifts beneath us, and she wobbles and slips on the rain-slick fiberglass, thudding into me. I let out an “Oof!” and stagger but keep us both upright. Having her against me isn’t as pleasant as the last time because now I know who she is, and I know why she’s here, but damn it! She still smells wicked good, even though she’s soggy. Shouldn’t she smell like a wet dog? No, that would be my scent right about now. I didn’t shower this morning and worked up a bit of sweat herding the kids.

I nudge her into the salon and slide the hatch closed. Grabbing a few beach towels, I toss one at her, hitting her square in the face.

Oops. I swear, that was not intentional.

I yank off my beanie, and as I proceed to dry myself, I notice she’s just standing there, dripping all over my floor. Not that the floor doesn’t get wet, but could she be a little more conscientious? What’s her deal?

“Hey, you okay over there?” Is she in shock? I consider toweling her off myself but wisely refrain.

She glances down at my feet and back up at me. “Why are you wearing shoes?”

“These are boat shoes. They don’t scuff the deck,” I explain. I kick them off because … Hell, I don’t know. Because she’s barefoot and I want to make her feel comfortable?

To my relief, she begins to dry herself. She even folds the towel, mops up her mess, and places it beneath her feet to absorb the drips and drops. Huh. Maybe I misjudged this one. But her teeth start to chatter, so now I offer her hot tea—because I can’t think what else to do or say.

I’m a dumbass!

She accepts, and I flick on some lights and brew up more hot water. Again, I add a generous splash of Woodford Reserve in mine, and in a Peggy repeat, she motions for me to doctor hers, so I oblige. The storm rages outside, turning the day into an early night. With the niceties out of the way, I once again ask why she’s here.

She stirs the tea ball in her steaming mug, her eyes glued to the motion. “I … I needed to see the ocean.”

Not what I expected to hear, and it hits me square in the chest because I get it. I can’t control my snark, though. “Well, you missed it. You might be on saltwater, but you’re sitting in a marina, in case you hadn’t noticed. The ocean’s on the other side of the inlet.” I jab my thumb over my shoulder.

She continues as if she doesn’t hear me. “I know it sounds cliché, but I like to walk on the beach.”

“You missed that too. By about eight miles.” I raise my mug to cover my smirk. Who does she think she’s kidding?

She lifts those light green eyes to mine. They’re as clear as they are beautiful, and they kindle with her dislike for me. “This was supposed to be a quick stop along the way. I like looking at boats too, and I needed to stretch my legs. I had no idea you would be here. If I had known, I would have kept driving.”

“Yeah? What have you got against me?” Shit, do I really want the answer? “You don’t even know me,” I throw out for good measure.

“True, but my brother—”

“He doesn’t know me either.”

“He knows enough.”

I cock my head. “Yeah? You know everything about everyone you work with?”

That simple question triggers a thorny reaction. She shoots up from the table so forcefully she cracks her knee on the edge and winces. Through gritted teeth, she says, “Thanks for the tea,” and stomps toward the hatch without taking a sip. “How do I open this thing?”

I’ve hit an exposed nerve. Obviously.

Confused by her reaction, I stand. “Don’t go out there right now.”