As an official pirate, I had the authority to do that. I contemplated it multiple times when the crew failed inspections or repeatedly mentioned my similarities with the fictional Pegleg Pete. It was hard not to think about it, especially when faced with my shortcomings every time I looked in a full-length mirror, which I tried to avoid.
I slammed the office door in frustration. The sharp edge of irritation lingered in my chest, and I limped back to my desk, feeling the weight of everything pressing in on me. The physical therapist had said it could take a while for me to feel like myself again after the surgery. I might’ve told her to sod off on one of those excruciating days. How can you ever feel like yourself after something like that?
A firm knock at the door snapped me from my thoughts, and I stiffened, already bracing for another ridiculous request. “I told you, Justin. I’m not doing it. Ask me again, and you’re fired!”
“I don’t know who Justin is,” a muffled reply came through the wooden door, and I felt an immediate jolt of recognition in my gut. “I’m here to apply for the Captain’s position?”
My heart leaped in my chest, and my dick twitched, a rush of heat flooding my system. The sharpness of her voice still echoed in my mind, and I could feel the pulse in my ears. There was no way it could be her. Kendra's boat had been nearly devoured by flames yesterday. Wasn’t she supposed to be grappling with the aftermath?
I hustled across the room, the tension coiling in my stomach, my breath coming a little faster as I gripped the doorknob, half-hoping, half-dreading, that it was her. And then, there she was, standing in the dimly lit passageway.
Her black deck shoes, worn and weathered, grounded her in a way that made my chest tighten. She hadn’t been wearing those when we rescued her—she’d been barefoot and covered in soot. Her black pants were rumpled with permanent white creases in them. A formerly white blouse with a dingy gray tinge was mostly tucked into the waistband. Part of it hung down on the side of her hip. Her blonde locks were pulled into a haphazard bun atop her head. And when her puffy blue eyes met mine, she gasped.
“You!”
“Me.”
“You work here?”
I nodded. “Worse than that. I own this ship. But never mind about me. Are you okay? Last night was?—”
“Not as crazy as the first night we met,” she said before slapping a hand over her mouth. A rosy flush crept from her neckline and spread across her fair complexion. “Oh, Holy Night. I’m so sorry! That’s unprofessional of me.”
“No worries, Goldilocks.” I stepped out of the doorway and gestured for her to enter my office. “Please come in. Would you fancy some tea? Or coffee?”
She shook her head and wandered into my temporary work and sleeping space. At least, it was supposed to be. I bought the floundering pirate-themed cruise ship as a lark to piss off my dad. But something about the ridiculous place kept me here. And it certainly did not, in any way, shape, or form, have anything to do with the lass studying my framed degree on the wall.
“Who’s Rowan Rafferty?”
I pointed to my chest.
She narrowed her eyes at me. “‘Raff. Call me Raff.’”
Was she trying to mimic an Australian accent? And why did it sound like Bob Marley?
I smiled at her. “That’s what people call me.”
She tilted her head and squinted at me. “Does anyone else see these people, or just you?”
I raised an eyebrow at her, and she returned to the wall.
“You went to M.I.T.?” Kendra asked.
I shrugged. “Like it’s hard?”
“That’s what he said,” Kendra snarked.
It was good that I hadn’t been drinking anything at the time. I would have snort-laughed it right out of my nose. “Good one.”
She shrugged. “I have jokes.”
“Yes. I went to M.I.T. and received a PhD in Naval Architecture,” I answered her question.
Kendra hummed in approval and moved to the next frame on my wall. The only other framed anything in my office. “Pirate?”
“You can’t run a pirate-themed dinner cruise without being a certified pirate, can you?” I challenged.
“Pretty sure you can. People can do all sorts of things. Remember that woman in the early 2000s, Miss Claire? Chargedpeople nine dollars a minute for psychic readings over the telephone? She wasn’t a psychic.”
