Cole
"So, ah, it's Cole,"Owen started, "right?"
I set the plates on the table and glanced up at him. "Yeah," I said, a whip of defensiveness in my words. There was no reason for it, other than my harebrained attempt at pretending to be anyone butmyself.
Owen placed the salad bowl on the center of the table and pulled large wooden spoons from his back pocket. He'd tucked them there when we'd gathered the dishes and cutlery in the kitchen before transporting everything to the porch. "Just Cole? Like Cher? Or Rihanna?" He peered at me. "I guess you could make thatwork."
He sat at a small, weathered table, and I followed. My last name was stuck in my throat, thick and paralyzing like a mouthful of too hot coffee. The miserable part was that the coffee had to go somewhere—I had to swallow or spit—even if both options were equallyunpleasant.
"McClish," I said quickly. It was more of a croak, a rough, guttural sound that I'd never be able to intentionally re-create.
Owen nodded, and busied himself with dressing the salad. I braced for the impact of recognition, the ten-second delay in which he'd put the pieces together and wonder aloud where he'd heard that name before. And then I'd bescrewed.
"All right then, Cole McClish," Owen said as he heaped servings of salad, potato, and steak on our plates. He waved at me, an indication that I should eat. "This is a nice salad. Pretty spiffy how you cut thosecucumbers."
"Yeah," I mumbled, staring at a forkful of lettuce and tomato. "Glad you likeit."
Owen bobbed his head as he chewed. "Mmhmm."
He didn't offer another word. Not even a murmur. He really,reallydidn't know me. I couldn't believe that I had this incredible gift, this moment to be the version of myself that I wanted instead of the one I'd become, and I was experiencing it with a man too fascinating and desirable to be real. A breath whooshed past my lips, fast and ragged like I'd taken a kick to the chest. I covered it up with an exaggerated cough, and then dug into mydinner.
I worked hard at keeping my gaze trained on my plate as I didn't want to stare at my host. I mean, Iwantedto stare and there was a whole lot of goodness to stare at, but I was still treading water here. I didn't know Owen and—as I'd discovered—he didn't know me, and that meant I had to exercise some of those manners Neera beat intome.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Owen asked, shaking me from mythoughts.
"Yes," I agreed automatically. I'd been staring at the crescent-shaped cove without seeing, my thoughts deep in debate over whether he hauled in those lobster traps shirtless. God, I hopedso.
"I don't have a lot of material requirements," he continued, "but I don't think I could live here without a porch." He pointed his beer bottle at the floor-to-ceiling screens that separated the deck from the elements. "You just can't appreciate this view fromindoors."
I wiped my hands on a napkin and tucked it beside my plate. "How long have you livedhere?"
Owen sipped his beer, his head moving from side to side as if he was digging back through memories to find the start of his life in this remote corner of theworld.
"A little more than fifteen years now," he said. He leaned out of his chair, jerking his chin in the direction of the slim lighthouse nestled into the high point of the cove. "One family maintained the lighthouse for almost two hundred years. The DaSilvas. They worked on the water, of course. But the younger generation wasn't interested in the upkeep. Didn't want to get involved with lobstering either." He rubbed his chin, pausing for a beat. Owen stared at the rocky cove as he spoke, and his words cooled with a bit of melancholy. "I know it's not for everyone, but it's not right for traditions to die out likethat."
"Is lobstering a family tradition for you?" Iasked.
"No, not my family, but I seem to think anyone who has lived on these shores has a bit of it in their bones," Owensaid.
I nodded though I didn't understand his logic. The world wasn't composed of people who felt compelled to follow their parents' footsteps anymore. There was no occupation-via-birthright.
"My mom was a high school guidance counselor before she retired. My dad worked in logging before he lost his hand," he continued. He offered a half smile with that tidbit, and I had to fight back an uncomfortable laugh. "Everyone who works in logging long enough loses something. Thankfully, it wasn't hishead."
"I can understand why you wouldn't follow in his footsteps," I said. "The desire to keep your limbs and all. How did you get into lobsteringthen?"
"I bought this land, and the boat, from the last lobsterman in the DaSilva family," Owen said. "He took me on as a summer deckhand when I was twelve, and taught me everything." He met my gaze. "It's important work. Most people don't think much of it, but it's important to care for the sea." He gestured to the lighthouse again. "Times might change, but some things should remain thesame."
"And it's only you here?" I asked, tempting him to tell me there was more to his life than lobsters and screened-in porches. He nodded. "For the past fifteenyears? That's insanity. I'd lose my fucking mind if I was alone this much. Do the walls respond when you talk to them, or is the conversation one-sided?"
"I like it that way," he said, each word rougher than the one before. "I enjoy being alone." He stared at me, his eyes narrowed in warning. "I prefer quiet. I hope that's not a problem foryou."
I bobbed my head, in agreement or acceptance or some acknowledgement that I wasn't to question Owen's life choices any further. I was the guest here, and if I wanted to stay a guest, I'd shut the fuckup.
So much for thosemanners.
"The work on your vessel," he started, his voice low and heavy, "it will take weeks? Ormonths?"
Thanks to the kindness of the harbormaster, my boat was docked in Talbott's Cove's marina. Despite my willingness to pay above the market rate for his trouble, he rented the slip for pennies. I didn't understand this town or thesepeople.
