I gestured behind her to the boat that would haul us and the sea kayaks out into open water. “Let’s get this show on the road then.”
Dori pursed her lips and inclined her head toward something behind me. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”
“Oh!” I yelped, feeling like the biggest ass for having momentarily forgotten about Ella. “Ella, this is our captain, Dori. Dori, this is my friend Ella.”
I practically choked on the word “friend,” but neither of them pointed it out if they noticed.
Dori extended a hand, which Ella accepted and shook. “Pleasure to meet you, Ella. How’d you meet this one?” She turned to me then and added, “What’re you even doing here? Aren’t you guys about to head into busy season?”
“He works for my family’s winery,” Ella said, answering the first of Dori’s questions.
“And we’re taking a cross-country road trip,” I added to clarify the second. “Had to get it in now before the tourists descend.”
Dori chuckled. “Don’t I know it. The fact that it’s still slow is the only reason I can afford to take just the two of you out.”
I scoffed. “I paid an arm and a leg for this private charter, thank you very much.”
Ella’s eyes swung to me. “Private charter?”
“I don’t like crowds,” I shrugged. Ella only nodded in understanding.
“Grumpy bastard,” Dori mumbled, though loud enough for us all to hear.
“I’m not grumpy,” I muttered as she led us onto the boat and immediately began directing us through security protocol. A boy who couldn’t have been older than twenty waited on board, gesturing to life jacket storage and other safety instruments as Dori mentioned them.
“This is my son, Marshall,” Dori said. “He’s my first mate today.”
I knew how old Dori was, yet I was still taken aback by the fact that she had adult children. To me, Dori waslifepersonified: she wore a black bandana looped around her neck that she’d shove over her hair before the end of our trip, thick, polarized sunglasses, and no-nonsense khaki cargo shorts and a grey tank that exposed her brown arms and the sleeve of tattoos on her leftone.
She was so fucking cool, and her energy instantly put me at ease the first time I’d met her. There was no bullshit, and she didn’t tolerate drama or gossip.
“So where are we headed?” she asked as she stood at the wheel, flicking random controls. A moment later, the boat rumbled to life beneath our feet, the heavy vibration instantly soothing me.
“Ella wants to see the island,” I told Dori. “And maybe we head out toward Miners?”
“Consider it done!” Dori agreed with a mock salute in my direction.
At last we backed away from the dock and set off into open water, picking up speed the further from the shore we got. Ella and I stood at the bow, the wind whipping her hair into a frenzy around her head, and I had to hold my hat onto mine. Her tattooed fingers casually gripped the railing, and I was mesmerized by the way she closed her eyes and sank into the sensation of the sunshine on her skin, the scents of the lake stirred up and wafted around us as we cut through the water. She looked so at peace.
We were only four hours from home and already she was coming out of her shell, like a flower blooming in the spring. I’d believed her when she said she needed this escape from her family and all the other people in town who refused to stay out of her business, but hearing it from her mouth and witnessing the near-immediate change first hand were two entirely different things.
Even if nothing happened with us, I was glad I could be the one to give her this.
I tried to listento Dori as she pointed out landmarks along the way to the spot where we’d anchor and take the kayaks out, but I was having difficulty focusing over the blissful emptiness in my head.
All my thoughts seemed to have evaporated on the wind until there was nothing but the rush of the waves and the roar of the boat engine.
Liam stood next to me, content to let me enjoy the silence, and I was grateful for it. His hands, those broad palms and long, thick fingers, curled over the railing exactly as mine were, and I stole furtive glances at his tattoos.
Alfie didn’t have any ink, and god, something about seeing Liam’s skin marked—about recognizing how polar opposite he was from everything my ex stood for—awoke something positively feral in my chest.
That delicate rose on the back of his left hand.
The letters on each knuckle, spelling out “overcome.”
The dark hair dusting over the lines etched into the tan skin of his arms.
Every inch of Liam Danvers was sexy as sin, what should’ve been a walking red flag wrapped in flannel and tight cotton tees.
