“Rusty, my love,” Emily said as she followed him across the gravel lot, “you’re a lifesaver.”
“Anything for you, dollface.” Rusty threw a beefy arm over her shoulders, and Dagan glanced at Christian. The poor man’s florid face pretty much summed up what Dagan was feeling.
“Let’s go.” Chelsea grabbed Dagan’s hand to give him a tug. “Quit lollygagging.” When she tried to release his fingers, he instinctively tightened his grip.
Turning back, she looked at him, then down at their joined hands, then back up at him. “What in the world has gotten into you today?” A seagull darted overhead, its desolate cry calling to something inside Dagan’s soul. Some lonely, aching part of him.
What had gotten into him?Her!She had gotten into him!
After years of denying himself the taste of her, like an anorexic denying himself food, he had finally caved. And now all he wanted was to gorge himself on her. Binge again and again, over and over until he couldn’t take any more.
Of course, he said none of that.
With a shrug and a roll of her eyes, Chelsea turned to traipse after the others, who were already making their way across the parking lot toward the dock and the waiting fishing boats. Still, he didn’t release her hand.
Why? Well, probably because he wanted to mark his territory in front of the oh-so-dreamy Rusty Parker. Which just proved he was an even bigger idiot than he had suspected.
Chapter 10
Dagan Zoelner had kissed her and then immediately been horrified by it. Now he was holding her hand as they made their way up the stairs to the docks, and Chelsea couldn’t help but wonder if in two minutes, he would be horrified by that too.
Okeydokey. Forget two minutes.
Dagan dropped her hand like a hot potato when Christian turned from his spot at the top of the steps, looking down at them with a raised brow and a knowing smirk. She frowned as she climbed the treads and made her way down the wooden dock toward the large twin-engine catamaran Rusty had stopped beside.
The fisherman had a presence as big as all outdoors and a smile to match when he offered her a hand aboard. She thought she heard Dagan mutter a profanity but couldn’t be sure. She was too busy getting her footing on the wide gray deck as it shifted gently up and down with the tide.
It occurred to Chelsea that the entire day had been like a bad episode ofThe Twilight Zone. One minute, Dagan was suffering an invasion of the body snatchers, acting uncharacteristically affectionate. The next, he was back to his solemn, annoying self. And the change from one state to the other kept happening so fast that she was suffering from emotional whiplash.
“Set your stuff anywhere you like inside, and grab a seat,” Rusty instructed after they were all aboard. He threw off thick, heavy mooring lines as if they weighed no more than jump ropes. “We’ll be underway in a jiff.”
Dagan passed her, heading toward the wheelhouse. She scowled at his broad back before following him inside. The place was spacious and housed the electronics and steering for the vessel. The white walls were bedecked in bright-orange life jackets on hooks. And two rows of bench seats were bolted into the decking behind the captain’s chair.
The boat was immaculate. Not a stray fish scale or vagrant speck of oil marred any surface. And the air spelled of bleach and industrial-strength soap. Rusty was obviously a fastidious boat captain.
What’s his story?Chelsea wondered. Not many Americans became English cod fishermen, she would bet, and—
“Come with me.” Dagan tugged her backpack from her shoulders. He set it beneath one of the bench seats, scooting it next to his own.
“Come with you where?” She lifted a brow. “Overboard? Because I reckon that’s the only place left to—”
“Belowdecks.” He grabbed her hand and towed her toward the stairs to the left of the captain’s chair. “We need to talk.”
“Oh goody.” She made a face. “All truly awesome conversations begin with those four words.”
Before descending the six metal steps that led into the catamaran’s hold, she stopped to see the others settling onto the bench seats. All three of them were watching her curiously. Chelsea caught Emily’s gaze, lifting her brows as if to say,Any idea what the heckfire is up with Z today?
Emily shrugged, and Chelsea was left with no recourse but to follow Dagan down into the belly of the ship.
He wanted to talk? Fine. Good. Becauseshehad a couple of things she wanted to say tohim.
“Here’s good.” He stopped next to a stack of boxes. Their labels readSkimmer Clams. Chelsea assumed they were the bait Rusty used to catch cod.
The hold was as clean as the rest of the boat: pristine floors, neatly stacked gear, and the aroma of strong soap mixed with the more common maritime smells of anti-fouling paint and marine fuel. A single bulb in a yellow plastic cage lit the space, creating long shadows, especially across Dagan’s face. They made him look even more mysterious. Even more fierce. Even more…delectable.
Chelsea turned away, refusing to look at him, hoping to find something to distract herself from his nipple-tightening presence. Then he blurted, “I’m sorry,” and she swung back to face him, blinking.
There were a few things to know about Dagan Zoelner. Number one, he had an uncanny ability to blend into a crowd. Number two, there was that odd statue-stillness that came over him right before he was about to do something of grave importance—or right before he was about to lay into her for something. And number three, in all their years working together, and all the times they had verbally tanned each other’s hides, he had never,not once, apologized to her.
