“Night, Colonel.” She leans down to hug him, and I feel that uncomfortable pinch in my chest again. “Thank you for a wonderful evening.”
“No, thank you, darling.” He hugs her back.
“That was fun,” she says as we exit the house to the starlit sky and warm night.
“Could have done without the show-and-tell.”
“Why? That was the betht part.”
“Very funny.”
“And I can attest to the fact that your peevis has healed remarkably well.”
Now I laugh and take her hand, closing it in mine. We walk to the park with Jordyn chatting. I like the sound of it, even if I am in my own thoughts. I hadn’t imagined anything like this with her.
The line is getting so blurred that I can barely see it anymore.
SATURDAY, I WAKE UP AT NINE. I slept like a baby—although I never understood that expression. From all I’ve heard, most babies aren’t so great at sleeping through the night. I pad to the bathroom that adjoins the guest room and Stiles’ bedroom. I fluff out the flattened side of my hair and brush my teeth using his toothpaste. I’d stuck to my guns, and hadn’t shared his bed because I wanted to be respectful of his grandfather, but I’d missed him.
I lift the bottle of his cologne to my nose, breathing in the citrusy-spiced notes that are all the better scented on his warm skin. I trail a hand over his razor, peek inside his cupboards without finding anything interesting, then knock on the connecting door to his room. When there’s no answer, I open it and see that his king-size bed is made to army precision. The corners are tightly tucked, and the top is smooth and firm enough to bounce a coin. I run my hand over the gray linen and the pillows, careful not to mess anything up.
I stroll to the large dresser, which is polished to a gleam and absent of any personal effects or knick-knacks. A glance inside his closet solidifies him as a bona fide neat freak. His clothes are arranged on hangers in a tidy row, his sweaters carefully folded and stacked on the shelves, and his shoes lined up. It’s exactly what I would expect from Robocop. But that’s only a small piece of the man.
I return to my room to dress for a day on the water and, soon after, find Stiles in the kitchen. He’d already gone to the dojo at some savage hour and was making breakfast. It’s nothing fancy—just eggs, bacon, and toast—but it’s good, and the company is even better. I’m smitten with the colonel, and I’m falling more and more for his grandson. But that’s my little secret for now.
We pack up leftover fried chicken, coleslaw, cornbread, and a bottle of wine in a cooler. At the marina where Stiles keeps his boat docked, he introduces me to a twenty-foot catamaran. I have been on cruises before with my family as a kid, and I once attended a business event on a yacht. Other than that, I don’t have much seaworthy experience, but I’m excited to see Stiles in action.
He makes me wear sunscreen, a hat, and a life vest. I don’t complain. I’m too absorbed in the way he expertly maneuvers through the light chop of water. Sailing isn’t the same kind of rush as being on the back of his bike, but it’s faster than I thought it would be. I lean over the railing, letting the warm wind whip playfully at my face.
Stiles is a confident captain. His grandfather taught him well. And the view is mighty fine with him in tri-colored trunks commanding the helm. His long, thick legs are planted apart to oblige the constant roll of the boat, and his big hands are firm on the wheel. When he turns his head, I can feel his eyes staring at me from behind the dark lenses. Okay, the Cubs baseball cap is an affront—I’m White Sox all the way—but I can forgive him that.
“Come here,” he gestures to me. “I’ll show you how to steer.”
“What do I do?”
He pulls me in front of him. “Put your hands on the wheel.” I do, and he covers them with his. “Now, keep it straight.”
I hold on tight as we move farther away from the dock, passing other boaters until there’s endless blue before us, and we’re flying on the edge of the wind. While I know Stiles is doing most of the work, it still feels good to have control of something so mighty.
“Keep hold,” he says a few minutes later, and withdrawing his hands, leaves me to go adjust the sails.
Holy shit! I’m actually driving this thing, or maybe it’s called piloting. Either way, I’m on my own. But Stiles isn’t the reckless type. He wouldn’t have left if he thought it was unsafe. And judging that the other boats are too far away for any traffic accident to occur, I loosen my white-knuckled grip and relax.
“You’re doing great,” he calls out as he raises the sail thingy, and the canvas shivers in the breeze.
Just as my confidence is building, I feel the boat tug off center. I turn the wheel, but overcompensating, it tilts more. I scream bloody murder. Stiles is by my side, laughing as his hands close over mine again to hold the boat steady.
“I thought we were going to capsize.”
“Nah. We’re nicely heeled in.”
My heart leaves my throat as I mimic his wide stance and go with the motion of the boat. He builds up more speed, and we sail farther away.
“Like it?” he asks, the sun bouncing off his shades.
“Love it.”
That pleases him. “We’re going to pull up at that spot.” He points in the distance. “Swim, if you want, fuck, have some lunch.”
