Chapter 19 #3
My heart thumps painfully, and my pulse thrums, a haze of lightheadedness flowing through me like a wave. I say quietly, “You don’t know anything about me.”
“I don’t have to. I know what you did, and I know what you’re going to do.” Rising out of his casual recline, Dryden tries to step past me. I grip his arm right above the elbow, fingers tight enough to ache. He looks at me, eyes dark and contemptuous.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I tell him. Our faces are close enough together that I have a clear view of one sculpted brow arching up his forehead.
“No? We’ll see.” He moves his arm in a clear let me go gesture. I unclench my fingers. “Either way, Shiloh and I are done, so you can stop worrying. I don’t want to be a part of whatever long-term edging the two of you are doing.”
I take a moment to very deliberately remind myself why I’m here, why I’m talking to him. He’s got a right to be annoyed or pissed off, and he’s definitely got the right to dislike me. Doesn’t make it any easier not to divest him of his teeth, but I imagine he has that effect on everyone.
“I’m not leaving,” I repeat. I haven’t even told Shiloh my plans to stay, but I suppose this motherfucker might as well know, too.
“You will,” he counters. “People like you always do.”
With that, he steps fully around me and crouches down to dig through the crate I brought on board. I shake out my hands, still fighting the urge to throttle him. I wonder if anyone would care if I drowned him in the bay. Hell, I might get a public service award.
Before I can mount a defense, the purr of an engine distracts me. Dryden looks up as well, glancing over toward Shiloh’s side of the dock and then looking back at me, smirking.
“Run along,” he tells me.
Annoyed and feeling like I came away worse off from that interaction, I leave the Maiden.
I look back over my shoulder as I walk toward Shiloh’s slip, but Dryden Roy’s back is to me as he remains knelt down by his supplies.
Even though I imagine he can feel my eyes on him, he doesn’t turn around.
Dismissed, even as I’m already walking away.
I wait as Shiloh brings the boat in, toes kissing the edge of the pier.
I didn’t plan this very well. His day doesn’t end right when he comes in.
He still has to deal with the catch and shut down the boat, get everything prepped for tomorrow so his morning goes smoothly.
I could help, I suppose, but the day I went out with them, I felt like they’d have been better off without me toward the end.
The three of them work pretty much in tandem—throw me into the mix, and suddenly, everyone is rubbing shoulders, bumping elbows, and all trying to do the same job at the same time.
Maybe I could fill in for one of them if the need ever arose, but the Drifter is just too small for the four of us to work comfortably.
“Hey, Ewan,” Oliver greets me, hopping out and catching the dock line Nils tosses him. He grins at me before crouching down to secure the boat to the cleats.
“Good day?” I ask. He shrugs, eyes on his hands.
“Not great. It’ll be nice when the season rolls around.” Finished tying off, Oliver stands and rubs an arm over his forehead. “We aren’t going out for the rest of the week, actually.”
“Really?” I ask, stepping back as Nils passes another line up to Oliver, who moves to tie it off.
I nod to Nils, who returns the greeting as silently as I gave it.
Raising my voice, I call over to Shiloh, who looks surprised and a little worried to see me.
“Take your time. I just needed to get out of the house.”
He nods, and I turn back to Oliver, surprised that Shiloh would give anyone a day off. Surprised that he would give himself a day off, honestly.
“Yeah,” Oliver confirms. “Another little break before the busy season starts.”
I whistle, long and low. Judging by the content of the emails Shiloh sent me, he hates the extended period of time away in the offseason and sets his traps early because of it. Because I still can’t quite believe it, I wait until Oliver is back on the boat before confirming.
“The rest of the week, as in you guys aren’t hauling again until Monday?”
“You got it.”
“Damn. Were you holding a gun to Shiloh’s head when he said that?”
Nils snorts. Behind him, Shiloh raises a hand to flip me off. I shrug, pretty secure in knowing that it’s more likely for lobsters to grow wings and fly than it is for Shiloh Lepage to voluntarily stop working. Maybe he’s sick.
“Everything okay?” Shiloh asks, coming close enough to pitch his voice low and keep the words between us. He’s staring up at me, swaying easily with the rocking of the boat beneath his feet. If Nils and Oliver weren’t right here, I’d reach out and slide my fingers into that thick hair.
“Yeah, just needed to get out for a bit. I’ll meet you back at home, okay?”
“All right,” he agrees, frowning and still sounding suspicious. Fuck it, I think, and brush my fingers through the hair falling over his brow. Nils and Oliver both know we’re together, so what the hell do I care if they catch me being sappy.
“See you soon. Don’t rush,” I remind him, not wanting Shiloh to sprint his way through his daily tasks just to figure out why I showed up unannounced.
Honestly, I don’t have a good reason beyond feeling restless and wanting to see him.
There’s something strangely eerie about being in his house all day without him—the wind louder, the creaking of the wood more pronounced.
As insane as it is, the emptiness of the space makes me anxious.
I find myself constantly checking the window, looking for Shiloh’s truck and scared that today he won’t come home.
Funny, the one who leaves terrified of being left behind.
“I’ll see you at home,” he agrees carefully, a hopeful light in his eye. Both of us just referred to his house as home, I realize, stomach clenching and squirming in discomfort, Dryden Roy’s words whispered once more in my ear.
I don’t look over at the Maiden Seas when I leave, having had quite enough of Dryden’s presence for the day. The month, honestly. One day, I might be brave enough to ask Shiloh about him—about them—but for now, I’m insecure enough to just not want to know.
The gravel crunches under the tires of my Jeep as I drive down Shiloh’s lane. A pair of crows are hopping around the yard, fighting over a bit of shiny something glinting on the ground. I walk over to investigate, bending over to pick up a bottle cap.
“Sorry, guys, no littering allowed,” I tell the crows, who squawk and flutter around, angry at me for stealing their treasure. I don’t even know how this got here, since Shiloh sure as hell didn’t toss it. He’d sooner cut off his own hand than leave trash on the ground.
Fiddling with the bottlecap, I skirt around the edge of the house and walk down toward the beach.
Sand blows across the path, the grass waving merrily in the breeze.
It’s a rougher sea today, the rolling waves dark and foamy as they coast their way to shore.
Stopping on my favorite rock, I look over to the right toward the lighthouse in the distance.
It’s an epic view, and at this time of day, especially.
It’s too early yet for the sun to fully set, but the sky is in that warm liminal stage between day and night—everything is soft around the edges, kissed with gold, the blue fading away gently.
I want to paint it. I want to paint it exactly how it looks standing right here on this rock in Shiloh’s yard, a view only he and I would recognize.
Turning the bottlecap over and over in my hand, I trace the pad of my thumb over the jagged, curved edge.
After a moment, I take my phone out and snap a series of photos of the lighthouse.
I’ve got a good memory for a scene, but even so, it can’t hurt to have a little reminder at hand when I slip back down into self-doubt.
The breeze has enough of a chill to it that I’m starting to get cold.
Sighing, I turn and start the walk back to Shiloh’s house.
If my body wanted to toughen up a bit sooner rather than later, that would be great.
Shiloh wasn’t even wearing a sweater, and here I am, fully covered and about to start shivering like a lost kitten.
Although I suppose there’s something to be said for being cold all the time, as long as Shiloh is around to take notice and offer to warm me up.
By the time his truck rumbles down the gravel-and-sand drive, I’m back up in the room we converted into a studio and tentatively shaping a piece in my head.
My pulse jumps as I watch him through the window, happy for any and all distractions that come my way.
I’m too nervous to really put any solid effort into painting, anyway, so it’s not as though he’s interrupting.
This is me easing myself back in—staring at the blank canvas and thinking threatening thoughts.
I meet Shiloh at the door like a big, overeager puppy, leaning forward to kiss him the moment his face is near enough to mine. He startles, returning the peck but also leaning away.
“I stink,” he warns me. I know! I think. If I had a tail, I’d be wagging it.
“How about a shower?” I offer. The bait smell doesn’t bother me, but if he wants to wash it away, I’m happy to get wet. He laughs, nudging me away and smacking my butt.
“I brought dinner. Go deal with that while I shower.” He hands me a pair of plastic bags and gestures toward the kitchen. Not precisely the sort of thing I’d been hoping to put into my mouth, but I can pivot.
“Okay. Hurry up,” I tell him, and then catch his chin to bring his mouth back to mine, stink or no. He huffs a muffled laugh but puts a hand on my hip and squeezes. Every inch of me hums with pleasure. Fuck you, Dryden Roy. You know nothing about me or this.