He pulls his gaze from me and stares absently at the ground. I notice him shift ever so slightly in discomfort. Shit, I’m such a fool.
“Well, this is embarrassing,” he finally starts. “But I’m from Iowa. I grew up surrounded by flat fields. When I moved here, I was freaked out by the darkness and depths of the oceans. I learned to sail to try to help me get over my…discomfort.” Heclearly doesn’t want to say he was afraid in front of me. I find it strangely endearing, as if he’s trying to impress me. I don’t know the last time someone tried to impress me. “I don’t mind being out on the water now, it’s actually quite comforting, but yeah, I’m not gonna whip out my cock and leave myself exposed to whatever lurks below.”
The way he says cock has my eyes widening and my thighs clenching uncontrollably. I absolutely cannot be thinking about my coworker’s cock…and yet….nope. Not allowed.
I can feel the stinging burn of embarrassment rise into my cheeks. I open my mouth but no words come out. My mouth flops open and closed like a fish.
“I’m sorry I intruded,” I finally manage to whisper. I divert my eyes and look at the ground.
I can feel the shadow of his looming form come over me as he approaches. Each of his footsteps has my heart thrumming in my chest. I keep my eyes pinned to the ground, pretending to be enthralled with the small shrubbery surrounding me. He steps so close I can smell him—smokey and masculine. I damn near whimper. His worn leather shoes point straight at me as I stare at the ground. We stand for a moment in silence before his fingers lightly graze my chin, turning my face up toward his. Our gazes clash and my entire core clenches.
“I’m not,” he states with a smirk.
I give him a quizzical look, but before I can think too much on his words, he asks me, “Why are you out here, all alone, and freezing your ass off, Princess?”
“I’m running away from a party, actually,” I mutter with a small chuckle.
It sounds silly when I say it aloud.
If you can’t be honest with Devilishly attractive coworkers you barely know, then who can you be honest with, right?
“Then it sounds like you need a beer,” he says as he releasesmy chin. His hand finds mine, fingers threading through my own in a way that has my pulse skyrocketing. “Come on. Come watch the sunset and have a drink. Then I’ll drop you back off at the docks so you don’t have to stomp around the island in those ridiculous heels.”
This is a bad idea. He is a bad idea. I know I should politely decline and walk back, walk away from him. And yet, I don’t. I let him pull me up onto the boat with him. His hands are warm and strong, the skin rough and calloused. I let him lead me astray.
“They’re wedges.” I make a pointed glance at my shoes. “But you’re right, I could definitely use a drink.”
He smirks and reaches into a red cooler placed along the deck. Retrieving a brown bottle, he twists off the cap and takes a swig before handing it to me. I give him a questioning glance and he shrugs.
“Where I’m from, you never hand a woman a full drink,” he explains with a shrug. “Leads to spills. And it’d be a shame to get anything on that pretty dress.” I smile and willingly accept the beer. “Where I’m from, we take care of pretty girls.”
My breath hitches slightly as our fingers touch. He’s near enough that I can feel his heat. Everything in me is screaming that this is a bad idea—heis a bad idea. So why do I sit and relax on the bench seat as we take off across the dark water?
My eyes quickly adjust to the low light of the evening, watching as the stars start to spot the sky. The rocking of the boat, the small splash of the water, the warmth spreading through me as the alcohol hits my empty stomach, all calming me for the first time in a long time. We fall into a peaceful silence. I look up and he’s staring at me. His blue eyes watching me like a hawk. The intensity makes me squirm.
“You must be cold. Shit,” he curses as he swiftly unzips his hoodie.
“Oh, no—” I start, but before I can finish, he tosses thehooded sweatshirt over to where I’m sitting.
The cotton is soft and warm beneath my fingers, and despite myself, I slip it on. It smells like him—smoky and rich. I can’t stop myself from snuggling into the fabric. With his arms now exposed, I can see the intricate sleeves of ink covering his muscles. They’re detailed and almost delicate in some areas, yet from afar, they depict assertive, masculine scenes. Mostly nature images, forests, and animals.
“Your tattoos are beautiful,” I say before I can stop myself.
He casts a glance over his shoulder and smirks. “I once noticed a girl I liked admiring someone’s tattoo. As soon as I was old enough, I got a tattoo to be that type of guy. And then I got another and another and now, well…” He shrugs and nods at his ink-covered arms. “They become pretty addicting.”
The story pulls at another loose thread of a lost memory. A time long ago and a man with a tattoo of a bird, but before I can place the fleeting image with a time or place, the memory slips through my fingers, lost back into the recesses of my mind.
“I think I’d like to get a tattoo sometime,” I remark.
“What would you get?” he asks while maneuvering the small boat through the water with ease.
“I’m not really sure,” I admit to him, and despite myself, the words just seem to spill out. “I’m not sure I really know who I am anymore, honestly.”
He sits for a moment, chewing over my admission. “Maybe you’re just getting back to who you were meant to be, Allison.”
I’m about to ask what he means when we turn a corner and the lights of the house come into view, a beacon through the dark cold gloom of the winter evening. But instead of filling me with relief, my insides knot and coil with anxious dread. The truth is, I don’t want to go back inside. I don’t want to play nice while my mother-in-law is passive aggressive and my husband flirts with waitresses right in front of me. I want him to steer the boat faraway. I haven’t felt the urge to run in a long time. I thought that part of me had died.
“Want me to just drop you at the dock?” Gabriel asks.
