I’ve never seen anyone so thrilled about watching birds puke half-digested fish into each other’s throats. Georgie called it “absolutely brilliant” and thanked me for letting her witness “authentic feeding behaviors.”
“Oh my God, look!” She points toward the cliffs. “Are those fulmars?”
Binoculars are up before I can answer. Her hair whips across her cheek as her brow furrows in fierce concentration and her lips part.
Hard not to admit it’s endearing as hell.
“Aye,” I say, easing the throttle back. I nose us in closer to the cliffs. “Nesting season. They’ll stick around all summer.”
“They’re incredible,” she breathes, never lowering the binoculars. “The book said they can live up to forty years.Forty yearsof flying all over the world and coming back to the same cliff face.”
“Loyal bastards.”
“Like they know exactly where they belong.”
I’ve taken plenty of people out here. Business associates who spend the whole time checking emails. Women I’m fucking, who curse the wind for wrecking their hair. VIPs who treat it like a photo op instead of seeing what’s in front of them.
Most wouldn’t know a fulmar from a bloody seagull.
But Georgie’s absorbed, binoculars glued to her face, guidebook pages flapping in the wind. Every few seconds she makes these tiny sounds—a quick breath when she spots something, a low hum when she’s pleased. She doesn’t even realize she’s doing it.
Thirty minutes on the water and the wound-up nerves she carries around me have finally bled out.
That’s the sea for you. Strips the world down to wind and salt and the fact that most of the shit we stress about on land doesn’t mean a damn thing out here.
It’s the first time I’ve seen a flicker of Jake in her.
She jabs a finger toward the cliff. “Look at that dumbo.”
I follow her line of sight. There’s a sheep perched halfway up a sheer drop, chewing grass like it’s enjoying a seaside picnic instead of one misplaced hoof away from a nosedive into the Atlantic.
“He thinks he’s too sure-footed to fall, but he absolutely can,” she says, lowering the binoculars. “About fifteen thousand sheep die falling off cliffs in the UK every year. They get so focused on the grass they forget the drop. Honestly, I can empathize. I once walked into a glass door three times in one day because I was thinking about code.”
I chuckle and cut the engine to let us drift. “Fifteen thousand? You just carry that statistic around waiting for moments like this?”
She gives a tiny shrug. “Since I made the list, I’ve been doing research. On everything.”
My grip on the wheel tightens. God knows what kind ofresearchshe’s been doing for that bloody list. Hopefully not compiling an index of eligible sheep farmers.
Safer to think about the sheep.
“The farmers here find them washed up on the beaches all the time,” I say. “Nature’s way of thinning the herd.”
Her smile falters. “That’s sad when you put it like that.”
“Circle of life.”
She lifts the binoculars again. “Maybe he’s just an adrenaline junkie. Has that ‘fear of missing out’ thing more than a fear of death. The grass is literally greener on the dangerous side.”
I huff out a laugh. “Comparing me to a daft sheep now?”
She bites her lip, fighting a smile. “Well, you both think the best views require maximum danger.”
I lean a forearm on the wheel, my gaze steady on her. “Views worth having don’t come easy. You’ve got to get close to the edge to see something worth looking at.”
I spot something that’ll get her excited. “Speaking of rare views… gannet at two o’clock. Big bastard, too.”
“Where?” She spins so fast her ponytail whips her shoulder.
