For the last hour, he’d been replenishing supplies with Sanders and repairing the hydraulic launcher. They really only needed the piece of equipment for crab season, but apparently he was making every excuse to be out on deck.
Where he had a clear view of the film set.
Hopefully after this morning, Hannah wouldn’t feel the need to defend his character anymore. She’d just disregard him with a knowing smirk, like everyone else, and he could get rid of this hope she inspired in him. He could stay where it was safe. Where his crewmates and fellow Westport residents chuckled and joked about him, but at least they weren’t questioning his legitimacy as a leader.
Surely Hannah would laugh off a guy who had a favorite brand and scent of massage oil? Even though he’d never needed the shit until recently.
Usually, if he required relief and his hand was the only option, he just worked it out with a lathered palm in the shower. Now that he was seeing his five digits exclusively, he’d sprung for something with a little pizzazz. Sue him.
Brendan would kick his ass if he knew Fox had spoken to her like that. But he’d had to weigh the threat of his best friend’s wrath against Hannah’s growing expectations of him. Because he was definitely not a fucking captain. Not someone to be trusted with a valuable boat or the lives of five men. Definitely not someone Hannah offered her mouth to in the moonlight. Or berated strangers over.
Just a good time. Nothing more, nothing less.
Sanders walked out on deck beside Fox and greeted him with a grunt. He tossed down the wrench he’d been using to repair the oil pump and swiped a hand over his wealth of carrot-colored hair. “Fuck sake, it’s hot down there. I’m thinking of installing a window in the hull. Do you think Brendan would mind?”
“If you sank the ship in hopes of a cross breeze? No, not at all,” Fox answered drily, a stillness settling over him at the sight of Hannah and Sergei discussing something over a clipboard. His fingers gripped the rope he was coiling in his hand, letting the material bite into his skin, harder and harder until Hannah finally walked away. Was the director staring after her?
Yeah. He was.
That kiss the other night had worked its magic. Good.
Maybe she’d asked him to lift a heavy piece of filming equipment. Or employed some strategic lip biting. All thanks to his urgings.
It wouldn’t be too long before they were both headed back to LA with a shiny new appreciation for each other.
Great.
Ignoring the acidic taste in his mouth, Fox went back to repairing the launcher and tried to focus. The sun beat down on the deck, unseasonably hot, until he and Sanders eventually gave up on shirts and shoes altogether.
Fox used to hate this kind of tedious work. He wanted to be out in the gale, warring with waves, battling their impact, witnessing nature at her angriest. Watching as she changed her mind in a matter of seconds. Maybe humans couldn’t change, but nature could. Nature lived to change.
Lately, he hadn’t minded the pedantic tasks as much. The repetition of bringing the Della Ray out to sea, docking it safely, and preparing it for the next run. Beneath his feet, the deck was warm, the vessel bobbing gently in the water, catching wakes from other boats taking tourists out to whale watch or on pleasure excursions. Salt flavored the air. Gulls floated on the breeze overhead.
In some other life, maybe, he would wrap his hands around the wheel of his own boat and greet nature on his own terms. Introduce himself as the one in charge, instead of the one who took orders and went home without the weight of responsibility. Growing up, occupying the wheelhouse had been the dream. A given. He’d learned to block it out, though. He’d blocked it so thoroughly, light couldn’t even seep in around the edges.
A trill of notes in Fox’s pocket had him swiping a forearm across his sweaty forehead and slipping out his cell.
Carmen.
He squinted an eye down at the name, trying to remember the face that belonged to it. No luck. Maybe the stewardess? If he answered the phone, her voice would probably jog a memory. Or he could ask for a reminder of her social media handle and figure it out that way. Most of the girls he met up with in Seattle didn’t get bent out of shape over his blurry memory, anyway. They were just as interested in low commitment as Fox.
Staring down at the phone, he let it go to voicemail without answering, knowing damn well the box was full. He hadn’t listened to the messages in months.
A minute after the phone stopped ringing, a text popped up on the screen.