“You say that like you had nothing to do with it,” she shoots back, blatant accusation dripping from her words.
My head rears back. “What are you talking about?” I barely know her. Why would I have anything to do with her nickname?
She looks like she’s about to explain it, but then she exhales and says, “You won, it’s Charlie.”
I have no idea what I won, but I say, “It suits you.”
She glances at her clothes. “Yeah, of course you’d say that.” Before I can ask what the hell she means, the door opens and in walks a group of tourists, no doubt from the big bus that just pulled up. She calls for help from the back room, and when a girl with very similar features to Charlie’s jumps in to help, Charlie turns her attention to the people stepping up to the counter. A smile reserved for tourists—or people she likes—lights up her pretty face.
I stand there for a second, a little mesmerized by her beauty as she chats easily with all the sightseers. She hoists a new bin of lobsters up to the counter for her customers to peruse, and for a tiny girl, she’s damn strong. That bin must weigh a good fifty pounds. It’s probably half her weight.
I get shuffled to the back of the store as more customers pile in, everyone looking for fresh lobster and scallops, and I scoop up the bin with the lobster shells and step out into the fresh afternoon air.
My phone pings and I walk to the wharf to avoid a group of tourists steamrolling my way and pull it from my pocket. I grin as I read the text from Rider, letting me know his arrival time. He and Jules are flying here from Seattle and I’m looking forward to showing them around my province. They’re leaving their little girl Sophie with Jules’ family and are taking a much-needed adult vacation. I text him back to let him know I’ll be at the airport to pick them up first thing tomorrow.
I shove my phone back into my pocket, and lift my head at the sound of papers flapping in the ocean breeze. I spot flyers in a wooden box nailed to the end of the dock, and pull one out to read about the boating and whale watching tours to Brier Island. It’s funny. I lived here until I went off to college and I’ve never once went on a tour or camped at Brier Island. I scan the brochure and check the departure dates for the overnight trip. I have no doubt Jules and Rider would love to do something like this.
“You won’t enjoy it.”
I turn to find Charlie coming my way, and as I take in the way her breasts tent the bib of her coveralls, and the soft sway of her hips as she walks, my dick twitches, once again reminding me I haven’t been with anyone in a long time. Charlie here though, she’s different from the girls who hang out at the rink and pretend they’re not cold in their skimpy clothes, even though hypothermia is nipping at their heels. Charlie would likely show up in an ankle length coat, a toque, and mittens. Something tells me she’s smart like that.
“What makes you say that?” I ask as she walks past me, and with deft fingers unties a boat from the metal ring attached to the dock like she’s done it a million times before. Rope in hand, and with the grace of a seasoned fisherman, she jumps onto the lobster boat and lands with a loud thud.
“Your legs.” She efficiently weaves the rope around a metal post attached to the floor of the vessel. It probably has a fancy boat name, but I’m a farm boy, not a fisherman, so I don’t know it.
“What about them?” I ask.
“Those aren’t sea legs.” I glance at my legs and when I look back at her, I’m pretty sure she’s trying to hold back a grin. For a split second, I think she might be flirting with me. “Legs like those, they’ll have you tripping up and before you know it, you’ll be losing your lunch over the side of the boat.”
“Are you messing with me?” She steps into the cab, and starts the boat. I watch as she expertly handles the large craft like it’s an extension of her small body. “What are you doing? Should you be on that thing alone?” I glance around. “Shouldn’t you get the captain? Is he around here? I can get him for you.”
“I’m a boat-napper, and I work alone.” She puts her fingers to her lips to hush me and I get it, my question was judgmental and sexist. I really didn’t mean it that way. I’m truly impressed with her skills. “Tell no one.”
I laugh, and so does she, but I don’t think she’s laughing with me. She spins the big wheel and moves away from the dock, and even though I suspect she’s laughingatme and my stupid questions, I stand there, a big ridiculous grin on my face as I watch her go. I glance at the brochure again, more intrigued than I was moments ago. The engine revs and I shade the sun from my eyes and look past the dock.
“Where are you going?” I shout out.
“Anywhere but here.”
I nod. I get it. She wants out of rural Nova Scotia, like every other person our age. Fishing and farming aren’t for everyone. I wave the brochure at her. “Do you run these tours?”
“Of course not. That would be a man’s job.”
Okay, another stupid question, and another sarcastic response I deserve. But I like it. She’s non-apologetic, seems completely comfortable with who she is and what she does, and she can handle a big-ass boat all by herself. There’s something so damn real about her, it taunts me—draws me in.
Before I can call her on her lie, she shakes her head. “Don’t do it, Wes,” she yells back at me, her words barely audible over the roar of the engine.
“I’m doing it, Captain,” I holler back, and as she shakes her head, I can’t deny that I might want to ‘do it’ with her. Might?
Yeah, okay. I for sure want to ‘do it’ with her, despite the fact that she hates me. But nothing about getting involved with Charlie—a local girl more likely than not looking for a ticket out of rural Nova Scotia—is smart or wise, and I usually like to listen to that smart, inner voice and make informed decisions.
Screw that, Mack.
2
Charlie
If you think I was flirting with him, I wasn’t. I was simply trying to engage in polite conversation, doing the best a girl can do when she only has one working brain cell. Apparently, all the others packed a bag and headed south the second Weston—or rather Wes—Hatfield stepped into the Lobster Pound. I heard he was back in town, and figured sooner or later I’d run into him. We do, after all, provide his farm with lobster shells on a regular basis. I just hadn’t expected my far too needy body to react quite the way it had when he strolled into the shop with pants that fit too nicely, and a T-shirt that did little to hide rippling ab muscles. I hate the boy who relentlessly teased me the winter before I grew boobs.