My God, it’s been a little over twenty-four hours since I set eyes on his gorgeous face, and lean muscled body, and I’m pretty sure my nipples are still hard enough to shuck scallops—now that would be a sight to see for the upcoming shucking competition. Nevertheless, I might not like him, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know a hot guy when I see one. Seriously, though. I hope he takes my advice and doesn’t sign up for a tour. I must check on my online reservation system. We’re all booked except for this coming weekend. If he doesn’t jump on it, he likely won’t get it, and I’d rather go a weekend without income than spend it with him.
Spending hours on a boat with him, our bodies in close proximity with no way to escape, would be pure torture and might just send my body into hyperdrive. The last thing I want is for the cocky hockey player who teased me at the rink to know I’m attracted to him. I mean, did you see his face, acting all innocent, like he hadn’t tormented me about my non-existent curves, or breasts, calling me Charlie instead of Charlotte and rudely joking that I must have signed up for the girls’ team by mistake. The nickname eventually stuck and I don’t hate it, but that doesn’t mean he’s not the world’s biggest asshole, either.
Thank God we were never in the same school. He’s older than me by three years, so by the time I’d reached high school, he was off to college, and up until yesterday I was able to avoid him by running the other way when I saw him coming, or ducking into the back office when his folks sent him to pick up the lobster shells.
I shove the last of the brochures into my bag and turn the sign on the door from open to close. The warm night air falls over me as I make my way along the shore to restock the shelves with my tour pamphlets. It’s a side hustle I started last summer. With lobster season finished until the fall, I repurposed the boat for whale-watching tours. I’m an entrepreneur at heart, and I have great management skills, if I do say so myself. That’s why I went to the city for a four-year degree in business management, which I’ve not really put to use outside my hometown. A measure of guilt eats at me. The truth is, I love it here in rural Nova Scotia. I love working the fishing boat with my sisters as well as the salty fishermen we hire to help out. Dad left after his fourth daughter was born, leaving Mom, and me, since I was seven, and the oldest, to run the show ourselves.
I guess seven years into the marriage he decided this life wasn’t for him. He wanted different things, but lobster fishing is in my mother’s blood and according to her, the only thing she was good at. She’s a fifth-generation seafarer, and my father wanted her to walk away from it—wanted her to be something she wasn’t.
I walk along the shore, contentment weaving its way through my blood as seagulls circle above, looking for a late day snack. I breathe in the thick, salted air, and I get why Mom couldn’t leave. I love it here too, but I have a degree she paid for, and I don’t want it to go to waste. She’s making sure all of us girls get our education, and really, she doesn’t need any of us to help her with the business. She can hire out like any other company, and she’s wanted to make sure she gave us opportunities, because she never wanted to keep us here for fear that we’d come to resent it—like our father.
The sea isn’t in everyone’s soul.
While it is in mine, there’s guilt too. Mom worked hard to make sure I was educated, and I can’t let that money go to waste, which is why I applied for a couple of jobs in Toronto last month, and I really shouldn’t be hoping they fall through. But she knows I’m good at other things besides deep sea fishing, and wants me to explore my opportunities.
The sea isn’t going anywhere, luv.
I grin as her words dance in my brain, and music blares from the open windows at Captain Jack’s Fish Shack. I cut down the path, and pull open the glass door, and the smell of deep-fried food reaches my nostrils. They do make the best fish and chips around and my stomach grumbles, reminding me I’d skipped lunch today. The tourist season is picking up, and while that’s good for the bottom line, I barely had time to breathe.
I reach into my bag and pull out a handful of brochures as I spin the rack with my other hand, to see how many of my old fliers are left. A loud booming voice reaches my ears and my entire body reacts in ways I wish it wouldn’t.
Wes Hatfield.
Really? Wes is here? At Captain Jack’s? Does this mean I’m going to run into the big jerk everywhere I go? I grip the metal rack to stop it from spinning, and slowly, carefully, glance around the display, but the second I do, I wish I hadn’t. As if sensing my eyes on him, Wes’ head lifts, and those light brown eyes latch on mine. Damn. Damn. Damn. I jump back to hide, but it’s too late for that. Too late to pretend I wasn’t checking him out, even though I wasn’t—I don’t think—and I have nothing to feel guilty about, so I have no idea why I’m trying to make myself invisible.
I shake my head at my foolishness, and as I pull myself together, I recklessly start jamming brochures into the slot. A strong wave of perfume wafts before my nose as Breton Boudreau, Wes Hatfield’s high school girlfriend walks by, a coffee carafe in her hand. I’m surprised she’s still here. Those who don’t join the family business leave right after high school. My friends are all long gone, and of course, none of the people I met at college are working in this podunk town.
I keep my head down, but I can still feel Wes’ eyes on me. From my peripheral vision, I spot Breton walking to his table, an extra little sway to her hips when she approaches. I almost snort. Maybe she’s trying to get him back. It’s not like she has any competition.
Taking my time, I clean up the rack, and I’m not lingering because I want to eavesdrop. That’s not my style. I’m taking my time because I made a mess of the arrangement, and I want my brochures to stand out. If there is one thing I love, it’s being on the boat, touring the bay for whales, or hiking Brier Island.
Once I’m done shuffling, I stand back and admire my handiwork. I’m pleased with the brochures I made weeks ago, and love how the color pops and grabs attention. Ready to move on to the next restaurant, I hike my bag up higher on my shoulder, and I’m about to turn when a big heavy palm lands on my shoulder.
The heat of his skin scorches my body and travels downward, creating warmth and need in every erogenous zone along the way. Oh boy.
“Hey,” a deep male voice says, and I don’t need to turn to know that big hand belongs to Wes.
Keep your cool, Charlie.
Do not act like you want to throw yourself at him and beg him to take you, right here, on the restaurant floor. I take a fast breath and move forward until his hand falls from my shoulder. With my lips pinched tight, I turn to face him, but what I failed to do was brace myself against that small smile flirting with those ridiculous kissable lips.
“What?” I blurt out, flustered, aroused…confused at the things this man makes me feel.
He holds his hand up, the same one that left a burning imprint on my shoulder. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to grab you like that.” He looks over his shoulder and rubs his chin. Why the hell is he acting so cagey? Wes Hatfield isn’t as calm and cool as he’s trying to portray. How interesting.
“Whatdidyou mean, then?”
His laugh is nervous, forced, and he takes a small step closer. The smell of deep-fried food is replaced with the enticing aroma of freshly washed skin, and laundered clothes. I think he uses the same fabric softener as I do. Ohmigod, why the hell am I thinking about fabric softener when he’s standing so close, crowding me…arousing me?
I clear my throat and step back a bit, needing a reprieve from his gravitational force, but he follows me, keeping close. Electricity arcs between our bodies, but I’m sure I’m the only one feeling it. I might have grown boobs and hips, but they’re certainly not noticeable beneath my loose-fitting T-shirt and jeans, and from the women I’ve seen on this man’s arms—our local paper always follows their homegrown hero—I am so not his type.
Another little nervous laugh bubbles in his throat, and he glances over his shoulders a third time. I lean to the side to see what’s ruffling his feathers, and I spot Breton standing at his table, her eyes narrowed, brimming with shock and disbelief, as she stares at us.
“What’s going—”
He puts his hands on my shoulders again and I forget what I was going to say next. “Please, just go with this. I’ll explain everything later.”
I open my mouth again, and his lips land on mine. Wait, what the hell does he think he’s doing? That wasn’t a damn invitation… Oh, hey, wow, that’s kind of nice. Soft. Sweet. Hmm, he tastes like warm rum, and I could use a glass or ten at the moment. That’s probably the reason I’m sliding my arms around his body, widening my fingers so I can touch every inch of his hardness. Yeah, yeah, that has to be it. Nothing else makes sense. I don’t even like this guy. His fingers on my shoulders tighten, and that’s when I realize my eyes are shut. I open them to find light brown eyes that can only be described as salted caramel staring back. Our mouths hang out a little longer, our lips a breath apart, as he whispers to me.