“No.”
“Noa.” My tone came out sharper, making her eyes pop open, her body going stiff.
“What is it?”
“I dunno. Can’t shake this feeling. I’m gonna go check things out.”
She sat up at that.
“We’ll go together.”
“No. Stay here. No point getting your boot on if it’s nothing.”
“Fine. But if you’re not back in five minutes, I’m coming to look for you, so don’t dawdle. Take the gun.”
I wasn’t going to fight her on that.
“Do me a favor and lock the door.”
“Alright,” she agreed, getting up on one foot and hopping on one foot toward the door.
I grabbed the gun, checked the mag, then made my way to the door.
“Five minutes,” Noa said, back in broker mode, everything about her serious and aware.
“I’ll only need three.” I leaned down, pressed a hard kiss to her lips, then moved out of the bedroom. “Lock the door.”
With that, I moved down the couple of steps from the main bedroom.
I paused to check the bathroom, then the guest room, taking the extra few seconds to open the wardrobe and look inside.
The boat was rocking harder than it’d been when we’d gone to bed, making me wonder if what woke me up was a possible crash of thunder from an oncoming storm.
There was a quick surge of panic, not sure what the fuck to do about a really bad storm while on a boat. Even if I’d been true to my word and read every page of the damn instruction manual. So I knew there was not only a life raft, but also something called a ‘tender.’ Which was basically a tiny little boat with an engine.
We were also notthatfar from shore. Growing up near the ocean—and thanks to a pool at the clubhouse that allowed me to do laps most days— I was a pretty strong swimmer. I didn’t know if that was the case for Noa. Though, judging by what she’d told me about her father so far, I imagined he saw swimming lessons as an essential part of her education.
I shook off those thoughts. It wasn’t the time of year for really severe storms. There was no solid reason to think we might need to make a middle-of-the-night escape via some tiny boat we didn’t even know how to pilot, let alone swim to shore.
I moved through the kitchen and living space, spending next to no time there, since there wasn’t anywhere for anyone to hide.
I made my way to the door, pausing, surprised at the way some part of me said to stop this, to go back to bed, to curl up with Noa and laugh off this weird gut feeling that something was off.
We were in the middle of the fucking ocean, for chrissakes.
My hand went to the lock, disengaging it, just as the boat rocked a little harder.
My stomach sloshed.
And I really hoped this was not the time to discover I had some mild seasickness as I stepped out of the kitchen and onto the small enclosed deck.
I unlatched the small deck door and moved out onto the slippery platform with steps leading up to the next level.
The front of the ship had nothing but a forgotten bottle of soda in a cupholder we’d left behind when the harsh afternoon sun sent us to the shadows at the rear of the boat.
I took another set of steps upward, checking out the flybridge, a place Noa insisted I stand, hands on the stainless steel wheel, and pose for her so she could snap a few pictures.
But it was a small space. The chance of anything suspicious being around were slim.
