I slow down, crouch beside her, and place my hand lightly on her elbow, careful to avoid anywhere inappropriate. The last thing a passed-out woman needs is to wake up with a strange guy’s hands on her.
“Hey,” I say, trying to keep my tone gentle, but it comes out gruff. “Hey there. You okay?”
Marshall tries to shove his nose under her arm again, and I push him back. She murmurs something I can’t make out and then manages to pull herself upright. Relief fills my chest. This is my one day off, and dealing with an unconscious stranger wasn’t on my to-do list.
She coughs a little and then clears her throat before looking up at me, tears forming in her eyes.
“What happened to you?” I ask. I turn toward the water and see a center-console skiff sitting close to shore, rocking back and forth in the tide. “Is that your boat?”
She shakes her head, and if I’m not mistaken, she’s turning a subtle shade of green. “I stole it.”
Well. That raises some questions. But now doesn’t seem like the time.
“Sounds like you’ve had quite the day,” I say instead.
She nods, staring at the sand like she wants to sink right through it.
“How about I call my buddy down at the coast guard? He might be able to pull that thing in before it floats off. Could keep you out of some trouble.”
She nods again, but nothing changes in her expression. She looks…hollowed out. Devastated. Like whatever drove her out here is way bigger than grand theft watercraft.
“And you can’t be comfortable in that thing,” I add, glancing at her fancy white dress. The poor woman has a piece of driftwood caught in the fabric.
“I wasn’t really in the first place,” she says.
I gesture down the beach. “I live right over there. Why don’t we get you warmed up? I can grab you something to change into. And you can use my phone to call…” I hesitate, because who the hell knows what kind of mess she’s in. “Whoever you need to.”
She doesn’t look overly enthused by the plan, but something in her resigned expression as she nods tells me I’m her best option.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
She pauses. “Sloane.” There’s a waver in her voice, like even she’s not sure.
“I’m Ryan,” I say, offering my hand.
She takes it, and I help her stand. The dress weighs a damn ton and I’m honestly impressed she didn’t sink. It’s now not just soaked, but also covered with a thin layer of sand.
“Come on,” I tell her. “My place is just up this way.”
Marshall leads us along the beach, tail wagging like he’s thrilled to be part of the most dramatic moment this town has seen in years. Sloane hangs back a step from me, and I don’t blame her. If our roles were reversed—a stranger leading me toward a secluded cottage—I’d probably be uneasy too. But she doesn’t have many options. Town is at least a half-hour walk, and that dress would make it torture.
We climb the sandy path to my cedar-shingled cottage. It looks onto the ocean, with a wide porch out front and surrounded by scrubland on the other sides. Some people thinkliving next to the water gets old when you work on it every day. For me, it’s where I breathe.
“After you,” I say.
She stops at the porch, and Marshall is practically passing out with excitement. I push the door open for her.
Inside, her gaze flickers across the space. It’s tidy. Comfortable.
“Nice place,” Sloane says.
“Thanks.” I unlock my phone and hand it to her. “I’ll get the kettle going and find you something dry to change into.”
She doesn’t move. Just stands there, staring at the phone like it’s about to explode in her hand.
I head to the kitchen, start the kettle, then go into my room to grab clothes. I find a University of San Diego T-shirt and a pair of joggers and—God help me—stop for a second to fix my hair in the mirror.
Ridiculous. Why do I care what this stranger, thisboat thiefthinks?
