Havingherlook at me with pity.
Which makes it something of a relief when she cranks off the engine of the boat, grabs the stern line, and hops on the dock, quickly mooring her boat to the cleats. Only then does she turn and face me, propping her fists on her hips. She’s wearing a long-sleeved shirt, unbuttoned over a simple swim tank and shorts. There is nothing sexy about her outfit…except that it’s on her body.
“Jonah Landrine, what the fuck is wrong with you?”
Okay. So this is happening.
I have to talk to her.
Since I currently have three marine-grade deck screws clenched in my teeth, I spit them out into my palm before saying, “Hey, Clara.”
She stomps over, stopping a few feet away. She whips off her sunglasses—the better to glare at me, I suppose—and stares up at me through squinting, angry eyes.
Clara doesn’t have a face for glaring. Her lips are too full, her cheeks too round. Her bright blue eyes too naturally sparkly. There are Pokémon who look more fierce.
Her eyes drop to the screws in my palm and then venture back to my face. “Oh my god. You spit nails now? What. The. Actual. Fuck.”
I glance over my shoulder, back toward the beach with the pale teal cinderblock building of the research station fifty yards up the beach and my little cottage tucked behind it.
If I just turned and walked back to the house, what are the chances she’d give up and leave?
I got an email from her yesterday and a text this morning saying they were evacuating Creciente Caye, so I know she has places to go and things to do.
On the other hand, she didn’t come all the way over here for a social visit. Not with a tropical storm brewing. So I suspect walking away now is out of the question.
I huff out a breath, pull my drill out of my pocket, and squat beside the loose board on the dock. I slide two of the screws back between my teeth and position the third, then drill it into the board, securing it to the joist below.
“Are you kidding me right now?”
I look up to find she’s stepped closer and is leaning over. I guess she thought I might not hear her over the whine of the drill. She smells like coconuts, sea salt, clean sweat, and all my crushed dreams.
Dreams I didn’t even know I had until I met her. Dreams about living with her, in a little house on the beach, making love and babies for the next fifty or so years. Dreams she definitely doesn’t share, given that she only signed up for two years with me and has made it pretty damn clear that’s all she wants.
“You’re fixing your dock?”
I spit the next screw into my palm and repeat the process.
“There is a hurricane coming. And not only do you not evacuate, despite all common sense and my direct orders, but you’re actually out here fixing your dock, like it’s a damn lazy Sunday afternoon.”
I move over to the next board, spit the screw into my palm, and drill in the last of the loose planks, before rocking back on my heels and wiping at my mouth with the back of my hand, because goddamn, the grease on the screws is disgusting.
And hopefully not deadly.
Probably not.
And they’re stainless steel, so I’m guessing they don’t have too much lead in them.
Even if they have lead in them, what’s the worst that could happen? Lead poisoning? That causes what? ADHD? Cognitive issues?
So what? I’d feel more restless than I always do and maybe stupider.
I already feel like a raging dumbass every time she’s around—and even when she’s not around, but I think of her—so where’s the damage there?
“Seriously, Jonah? You have nothing to say?”
And, no. I don’t.
Because she’s here. In person.
