There wasa sailing vessel in mycove.
I was reading on the porch, alone save for the Japanese beetles watching me from the other side of the screen. Contentment came in the form of drinking my beer and settling into some Whitman until I noticed a light at the mouth of the cove. I gave it a long, weary stare before setting my bookdown.
With annoyance growing heavy on my shoulders, I pushed to my feet. This area was remote, far outside the typical routes of the luxury yachters and sport fishermen. The only visitors in these parts were locals, and they didn't come calling at this hour of thenight.
That left only two options for this vessel. It was either off course ortrespassing.
Now, I didn't own the water, but all the solid ground ringing the shore belonged to me. Regardless of whether this sailor had lost his way or was looking for a quiet spot to drop anchor for the night, he'd be going through mefirst.
I offered my old rocking chair a baleful stare before marching out of the porch. The beetles scattered as the screen door banged shut behind me. I thundered down the narrow wooden staircase that connected my home and the adjoining lighthouse to the dock. An aging skiff was moored there, opposite an equally old lobsterboat.
Before casting off, I squinted over water. The intruder was drifting closer, and making no obvious attempt at turning back or signaling for aid. These waters were protected. Endangered species lived in and around the rocky coast, and vessels with that size and hull structure would leave a wake big enough to disrupt those fragile colonies. Not that I cared about the boat, but it was also in danger. If it came much closer, it was liable to run aground and that was even worse news for the conservationzone.
Time to show this sailor the way back to openwater.
"It's too damn late for this shit," I groused as I turned over the skiff's motor. I could count the hours until a new day started and I was hoisting lobster traps and ferrying the day's catch to the fish markets up and down the seacoast. But this wasmycove, and mine alone. I'd see to its preservation, as I had for nearly two decades, even if that left me tired and crankytomorrow.
I was tired and cranky most mornings. I blamed my temperament on the backbreaking work of being a lobsterman who was doing everything in his power to survive, but there was more. Life on the ocean wasn't easy, and as the years passed, I was more and more convinced I was destined for a solitaryexistence.
And that made sense. I didn't like most people and hated sharing a bed. My philosophy was simple: get in, get your business done, get out. No need to complicate matters. No reason to go hog wild with those online dating schemes. Putting my information out there, on the internet, didn't sit well with me. It seemed like a big black hole of bank accounts and sexual preferences, and I didn't want to get sucked into thatgarbage.
No, I preferred the order and structure of my life without any of that. People, dating, the so-called digital age—I didn't need it, not when it was easy enough to dedicate one night every now and then to random hookups outside this smalltown.
In, out,over.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," I grumbled when I noticed the trespassing boat's lights flicker off. That wasn't a good sign foranyone.
I circled the vessel twice, the skiff's motor puttering as I slowed. It was more than enough notice for the crew, and any seaman who knew his shit would've acknowledged my presence by now. None of this feltright.
With a huff, I tossed my buoys overboard and climbed onto the trespasser's deck. I called out to the captain, hoping for a quick chat about shoreline species conservation and directions to the nearestmarina.
Instead, I found myself staring down the barrel of ashotgun.
"Welcome to Talbott's Cove," I said. "Now, lower the firearm,Captain."
"I know maritime laws, and I know I didnotinvite you aboard," a hard voice said. It was hard, but there was a quiver behindit.
In one deft movement, I had the gun in hand and ammunition tumbling to the deck. "No," I said, "you did not. However, you're drifting northwest and minutes away from running aground. If that wasn't enough, you're in an ecological preserve that's only open to small crafts. You're looking at a ten-thousand-dollar fine, and on top of that, you've fucked up mynight."
I hadn't gotten a good look at the shotgun-wielding captain. It was too dark in the cloudy moonlight to see more than shapes, and the man was sheltered by the mast's shadows. But now, as he stepped forward, his eyes wide with fear, I realized a few importantthings.
To start off, he was injured. His forehead was split with an ugly gash, his preppy polo shirt soaked with blood, and his hands wereshaking.
Next, he was strong; stronger than I'd expected for a man who let his weapon make introductions. His chest and shoulders were broad, his biceps strained against his sleeves, and his thighs were thick and powerful. His hair was light, somewhere between blond and brown, though his eyes were dark. I'd place him in his early thirties, but no more than ten years younger than my thirty-nine.
Last, I was immediately attracted to him. I couldn't articulate why I found this man pulse-quickeningly sexy, and I didn't want to dwell on that reactioneither.
"You need to get out of this cove," I said. He almost recoiled at the vicious snap in my words. That was one of my many problems. I was a mean sonofabitch when I wanted tobe.
The captain waved at the boat. "Power's out," he said with a pathetic shrug, "and that controls everything. Motherboard on the navigation system is fried. And…" He turned his face to the night sky. "Not enough wind to catch thesails."
I stared out at the calm sea. "What about the crew? They can't bust out some duct tape and get things back inorder?"
He shook his head. "No crew," he replied. "It's justme."
Well, that made no fucking sense. A boat like this, a captain dressed like that, these were the conditions for an unreasonably large crew. The one percent didn't sailsolo.
"Fine. I'll radio the Coast Guard. They'll tow you to Portland," I said, my eyes drawn to the tight white polo again. He was fit as fuck, but it was the manicured, thoughtful kind of fit. It wasn't the product of hard labor but of discipline and, most likely, a lot of money. I couldn't decide how I felt about that. Forcing my attention from his chest, I sneered at his shiny new Sperrys. "Or Bar Harbor. That's probably more yourspeed."
