Chapter 15
Diana
Ten minutes later I’m sitting in the rowboat with my arms folded around my knees.
I’m still shaking from Ike dragging me up the lighthouse like a caveman.
Then he held my hand as he helped me onto the boat a few minutes ago.
No big deal, right? Except the contact sent a zap of electricity through my fingers and up my arm that made me snort.
Generations of well-mannered Yorks collectively turned over in their graves at the sound.
Ike just gave me a crooked grin and settled into his side of the boat without a word.
I tried the Mr. Darcy hand flex to get my head on straight, and it didn’t help at all.
Now Ike is rowing, and I’m a nervous wreck.
This ramshackle boat isn’t at all stable, and the water is choppy, slapping into the sides of the boat as Ike rows.
Any minute now it’s going to dip sideways, and we’ll both be under water.
I shift to the right in an effort to balance us. It makes the situation worse.
“You need to stop doing that.” Ike grunts lightly, pulling the oars to his chest and pushing them back out.
The rhythm of his rowing has my attention divided between him and the waves. I’ve never seen arms like his in real life. He’s got this infuriating Hercules thing going on, and it’s growing less infuriating and more confusing by the day.
His voice cuts into my secret thoughts. “Little tip for balancing in a small boat: Don’t overthink it. Relax and focus on the horizon.”
“Easy for you to say,” I mutter. How am I supposed to focus on the horizon when the waves are pushing the boat around? I need to be ready for them. And his big arms are in my face, not helping the situation. I’m going to sink in the ocean wearing a dopey, twitterpated grin.
“Focus on where we’re going.” I feel his eyes on me, and my face turns hot. “Quit staring at my muscles.”
“Pshht.” He’s so full of himself. And so right. “Okay.” I can try it his way—focused on where we’re going, not on the waves or his arms. I search the horizon for a distraction.
Maine is stunning in the summer with its rocky, tree-lined shore. The sun sets behind the trees, and the sky glows pink over the dark ocean. A few golden clouds are blowing across the bubble gum sky.
Closing my eyes, I breathe deeply, and the summer breeze smells like salt water and Ike. With my eyes closed, I’m surprised to find the ocean sounds soothing instead of intimidating. The rolling waves and screech of a faraway seagull calm my shakiness.
This moment is… perfection. More electricity buzzes through me, but not from Ike’s hand in mine. Joy. This moment is pure joy.
There it is, Tom Selleck points out in my mind. Isn’t that what you’ve been missing?
Undiluted happiness flashes through me like a meteor.
Possibilities and dreams spark like fireworks, lighting me up from the inside out.
Thoughts of what the lighthouse will be in a few months, of who I can be and where I can go, fill my head.
I’m excited about my life, maybe for the first time in a decade.
“What are you smiling about?” There’s amusement in Ike’s low voice.
I blink my eyes open. That’s right, I’m still married to Ike Wentworth, the man who thinks I’m a witch. I’m someone he tells stories about at parties. The sparklers and fireworks in my heart dim ever-so-slightly. “Was I smiling?”
Except the look on his face says Ike might not think I’m a witch anymore. His slanted grin and the light in his eyes say something else. “Yeah. I’ve never seen you look so happy.”
“Maybe not when you’re around.” I fire the cheap shot without thinking—a total knee-jerk reaction.
Roasting Ike is pure muscle memory at this point, and I need to retrain myself.
This is the guy who made eggs for me and folds his blankets neatly on the back of the couch every morning because he knows I like it.
He isn’t terrible. He’s trying. And the twinkle in his eyes faded noticeably at my lazy joke.
My stomach twists. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. ”
I can’t elaborate safely. I don’t want him to think I hate him, but I don’t want him to think I like him.
I don’t like him, right? I mean, he’s thoughtful.
He’s surprisingly sensitive. He works harder than anyone I’ve ever known, a lot of the time to help other people.
And sure, he’s objectively attractive when he’s getting ready for work in the morning.
He whistles softly when he ties his tie, and I kind of love the way his hair looks when it’s slightly damp and freshly combed.
It curls a little at his neck because he needs a haircut.
And he’s extra cute when he first wakes up and tries to smooth his bedhead before I see it.
Oh, and those arms? Don’t get me started.
I gasp lightly as the truth of my thoughts slaps my face like a rogue wave.
Oh no.
I actually like Ike. Of course, he does things that annoy the bejeezus out of me, and I have plenty of unanswered questions, but the reality of it remains. I like Ike.
Now that I realize I like him and that I am, in fact, married to the man I like, I have questions.
The main one being, why did he antagonize me so thoroughly when we were younger?
And where does he go every Saturday night?
I’m coming dangerously close to caring about Ike in addition to liking him. And I know I’m thinking too much.
But he’s frowning as he rows, fully focused on the shore. “No sweat.” He grins again, but the light is almost gone from his eyes. “I get it. You can’t stand me, and you drive me nuts. Old news, right?” His accompanying chuckle is dark.
I nod, chastened and stinging from the much-needed reminder: He doesn’t like me.
I’m over here noticing the minor muscles in his forearm and the way he folds blankets, but I drive him nuts.
The thought clamps my mouth shut. I need to reread our contract tonight.
I need to memorize it. Because Ike isn’t in this for friendship, and neither am I.
It doesn’t matter that I’m learning that my husband is a good person.
We’re married to save the lighthouse and that’s it.
Nothing more.