So why does it feel so different this time?
The heavy wooden door to the Seafarer’s Haven swings open with a loud creak, a stark contrast to the rowdy sports bar I just left. Gone are the loud crowds and terrible karaoke. This place is all dark wood and nautical knickknacks, like an old pirate ship was turned into a pub.
A few grizzled guys are quietly nursing their beers, probably contemplating their life choices. This is a real sailor’s bar, the kind of place where you wouldn’t be surprised to see a peg leg propped up against the counter.
And apparently, it’s also the kind of place where Liam McLaren summons his employees for meetings in the middle of the night. Because that’s not strange at all.
I immediately feel overdressed in my red cocktail dress. A few of the guys give me an obvious once-over, blatantly staring.
I scan the dimly lit bar area, but Liam’s nowhere to be seen. Did he seriously change his mind at the last minute and ditch me without a word?
My restless gaze lands on the lone, broad-shouldered figure seated at the far end of the battered old bar with his back to me—aguy in a casual blue T-shirt and baseball cap, casually sipping his pint while watching the television overhead.
Something about the easy, powerful confidence radiating from his lounging posture makes my pulse quicken. I was expecting buttoned-up, tuxedo-clad Liam, not . . .this.
Squaring my shoulders, I toss my hair back and saunter over. I slide onto the vacant stool beside him, trying to look nonchalant and not like I’m about to jump out of my skin with nerves.
“Excuse me,” I say, keeping my tone controlled. “I’m looking for someone. A fisherman named Liam? I don’t suppose you know him?”
He slowly swivels around on his stool to face me head-on. Even with the brim of his cap shading his eyes, there’s absolutely no mistaking the harsh, achingly familiar angles of that chiseled jawline . . . or those brooding dark eyes pinning me in place.
Fuck me with an oar and call me a mermaid. Fisherman Liam is stupidly, ridiculously, ruin-your-panties hot.
Our eyes lock, and a small smirk curves his lips. “And just who might you be?”
Delighted tingles race through me as I realize we’ve slipped into a role-play. Time to break out my saucy alter-ego. “Ginger,” I purr, trying to inject some Jessica Rabbit sultriness into my voice
“Ginger,” he repeats in a low tone that seems to touch every one of my senses, making my knees weak. “Can I convince you to have a drink with me, Ginger?”
“Whisky, neat. Only the good stuff. I’m a lady with discerning tastes.”
“Clearly. I’ll do my best.” Liam signals the bartender over and orders my drink, then turns that searing gaze back to me. “You seem lost, darlin’. Surely a pretty lady like yourself doesn’t belongin a place like this.” He tries to hide his smirk but fails miserably. “Why are you after fisherman Liam?”
“He’s my arrogant boss,” I say, warming to my role. “He summoned me here, probably for some unreasonable request. He drives me crazy.”
Liam makes a soft tsking sound in the back of his throat. “Your boss sounds like he doesn’t appreciate you at all, darlin’. What a shame.”
The bartender slides over my whisky and I take a sip, trying not to choke on the burn. Note to self: fake-me needs to work on her whisky tolerance.
“Oh, you have no idea,” I breathe out. “He’s a nightmare, a right piece of work on his best days. He’s captain of a fishing boat. He’s mean as an old shark, drives the crew nuts.” I pause, enjoying myself maybe a bit too much. “They say his heart is covered in barnacles and his soul is made of seaweed.”
“Uh-huh.” His eyes crinkle at the corners. “And what do you do for this mean old captain, Ginger?”
“I’m his . . .” I flounder for a moment, trying to think of what a fishing boat captain might need. A deck hand? “His secretary,” I blurt out, going for broke. “It’s a terribly tough job, you know.” I flutter my lashes at him, laying it on thick. “Lots of . . . filing. And . . . fish-related paperwork.”
His eyes spark with heated amusement, his lips twitching. “I can only imagine. Well, you’ve got my undivided attention now, unlike your prick of a boss.”
Heat licks down my spine at his words, pooling low in my belly.
“I don’t know what his problem is,” I murmur. “You’d think he’d appreciate having a hardworking gal like me around.”
“Maybe he’s frustrated. I can imagine working with you all day, being so close but not able to touch you . . . It would certainly test any man’s patience.”
I nearly choke on my whisky. “I never thought of it that way,” I stammer. “You think that’s why he’s so grumpy all the time?”
“Darlin’, if I had a secretary who looked like you, I’d be feeling tortured myself. I bet he goes home every night and takes out his frustrations on his poor, abused fishing rod, if you know what I mean.”
This time I nearly snort whisky out of my nose at the mental image of Liam furiously masturbating over . . . Ginger.
