Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Emily
The water taxi heaves beneath us, iron-gray waves slapping the hull while rain drums a steady rhythm on the metal roof.
I shift on the bench, the cold metal sending vibrations from the engines through my body, and I move closer to the open side of the boat to put some distance between me and Jared.
With the inclement weather, he had decided to sit back with the crew and not distract his cousin at the wheel. And despite how I’ve been a complete ass to him, he chose the section of the bench right next to me.
The boat lists to port, and Jared’s knee knocks mine, sending warmth spreading up my thigh. His pheromones mingle with the sharp bite of diesel, salt air and driftwood, both clean and wild. It settles into my lungs with each breath, uninvited but not unwelcome.
I stare through the rain-spattered clear plastic that had been lowered to block the angry spray, watching the world blur past. The island draws closer, tall pines and rocky shores rising from the steel-colored water, while the wake fans out behind us, white froth cutting through the dark surface.
Jared clears his throat beside me. “Another perfect day to be working outside.”
My lips twitch, and I bite the inside of my cheek. “Nothing a little overtime pay won’t fix.”
The boat slams into a trough, and my shoulder crashes into his. His hand shoots out, steadying me with a grip on my arm that lingers. When he pulls back, the absence of heat makes the cold that much worse.
I should never have kissed him. Should never have let him into my home, into my life. The barriers I built after Auren weren’t enough, and now I sit beside the evidence of my failure to protect both of us.
The engine pitch changes as Kyle throttles back, approaching the channel between the mainland and the island. The waves flatten out, and the rocking gentles. Still, our knees connect with each bob and sway, the contact electric through two layers of denim.
My hands curl around the edge of the bench, the metal biting into my palms. Keeping things professional is the right call. The only call. But the knowledge sits cold and hard in my stomach, a stone I have to swallow again each time I catch his scent or hear his laugh.
“Think the rain will stop by the time we head back tonight?” Jared asks, trying to keep the conversation going.
My focus shifts to the horizon. “Weather report says it won’t.”
“Weather reports lie.” His fingers tap on his thigh, inches from where our legs press together.
The boat engine throttles lower, and the taxi pushes through the final stretch of choppy water. Spray hits the plastic, finding the gaps and seeping beneath. Around us, a couple of crew members laugh at some private joke, the sound jarring in the quiet we’ve built.
I think of all the right reasons to maintain distance. The age gap. My history. His vulnerability. The crew’s gossip. The town’s judgment.
But none of that explains the ache in my chest when traces of him cling to my towels, or when his coffee mug rests beside mine like it belongs there.
Jared shifts beside me, his shoulder brushing mine as he turns to me. “You need a refill?”
He gestures toward the thermos clutched in my hand.
I’d forgotten it was there, the metal warming my palms. I unscrew the cap, and steam rises, filled with coffee and cinnamon.
He had it ready for me this morning by the time I reached the kitchen, and I’d barely touched it on the ride to the island.
“I’m good,” I say, though the truth is I’m anything but.
I recap the thermos without taking a drink, and our fingers brush as he hands me my gloves from the bench between us. His fever-hot skin burns mine, which has grown cold within the shelter of the taxi.
The boat slows further, and the engine gurgles as Kyle navigates the final approach to the dock. Through the window, I spot Nathaniel waiting under a black umbrella, clipboard tucked under his arm.
“Looks like someone has a welcoming committee.” Jared zips his jacket higher, preparing for the dash from boat to shore.
I should be doing the same, gathering my things and shifting into superintendent mode. Instead, I find myself watching the pulse point in his neck, the way his hair curls at his collar, and the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw.
The boat bumps against the dock, and the engines cut off. The sudden absence of vibration leaves my body with a hollow ring, as if the machinery had been filling spaces inside me that now gape, open and empty.
“Emily?” he asks, and I realize he caught me staring.
I stand, coffee thermos in one hand, work gloves in the other. “I should get moving. The schedule’s tight today.”
The words come out steady. This is what’s best. Professional. Distant. Safe. The lie of it sits in my throat like a fishbone, painful and impossible to swallow.
He rises beside me, taller than I sometimes remember. The space between us shrinks and expands with each breath, a tide I can’t control. Behind him, the crew gathers their tools and lunch pails, voices rising as they prepare to disembark.
With a shaky exhale, Jared steps back, giving me space to exit first, his palm hovering near but not touching the small of my back.
I stride past him, chin up. The professional. The superintendent. The Alpha who doesn’t need or want complications.
Ahead of us, Leif meets Nathaniel, and I breathe a sigh of relief that the other Alpha hadn’t come down to the docks to talk to me. I don’t know if I could manage to answer any of his questions about the job right now, nor bear his quiet concern as a friend.
With each step down the ramp, the ache in my chest grows, but I keep walking because the alternative terrifies me more than the emptiness I’ve grown accustomed to.
Behind me, Jared’s boots thump on the metal ramp, following at a careful distance. Not too close. Just as I asked. Just as I demanded.
Just as I lied I wanted.
By late afternoon, mud clings to my boots, adding weight to my already-tired legs. The constant downpour has turned the worksite into a slick obstacle course, and the latest delivery needs to get logged and stored before it’s damaged.
I check my clipboard, the plastic cover beaded with water droplets that threaten the paper beneath. Somewhere, a generator sputters through a rough patch, then settles back into its steady hum.
“Boss, where do you want these fixtures?” Clint balances a box on his shoulder, rain darkening his bandana.
I point toward the covered storage tent. “Stack them with the rest of the bathroom materials, and mark them off on the inventory sheet.”
He gives me a salute with his free hand and trudges through the mud. Two more workers follow him, carrying similar boxes and griping about the weather.
“If it rains any harder, we’ll need life vests instead of hard hats,” one calls out, the wind whipping the quip across the site.
“You think we can demand hazard pay if it comes to that?” the other replies, and laughter breaks out between them.
I turn back to my clipboard, running my finger down the delivery schedule.
The baseboards still haven’t arrived, and we’re still held up on the kitchen lines.
The exterior hookup can’t go in until the ground dries out.
My pen scratches over the damp paper as I note the changes and potential impacts to our timeline.
Despite the chill, sweat trickles down my spine under layers of thermal shirt and waterproof jacket.
I shift my weight, mud squelching beneath my soles. From inside the Homestead comes the sounds of hammers and nail guns echoing in irregular percussion. We’re getting close, but this weather isn’t helping us.
A burst of laughter draws my attention to the supply tent. Jared stands among a group of workers, his tall frame easy to spot from this distance. His head tips back as he laughs at whatever story Clint is sharing, his hands animated as he adds details I can’t hear.
My fingers tighten around the clipboard. He shouldn’t be here, not after his regular shift on the water taxi. Yet there he is, offering to help unload materials or fix equipment, integrating himself into the crew that once shunned him.
The rain beads on his jacket and darkens his hair to amber. Even from here, I can see the ease in his shoulders that wasn’t there weeks ago. He belongs now, or is beginning to. The thought should please me, but instead, it tugs at that ache in my chest from maintaining my distance.
When did his smile become as familiar as my own reflection? When did the sound of his laugh join the list of things I listen for?
As if sensing my stare, Jared turns, and our eyes connect across the muddy expanse of the worksite. His expression brightens for a split second before he reins it in, straightening with an air of professionalism.
Watching him mask his happiness sets off a pang within me, and I force myself to lift my chin in greeting, the same as I would to any other worker, and return my attention to the clipboard.
The numbers swim, delivery dates blurring into meaningless patterns.
I blink rain from my lashes and try to refocus.
When my phone buzzes in my pocket, I’m grateful for the distraction. I pull it out, expecting a message from Nathaniel about permits or Dominic about paint colors or Holden demanding the date his kitchen will be ready.
Instead, a notification banner flashes across the top of my screen.
Auren Dovelle has posted a new photo.
My stomach contracts. I should ignore it. Block him. Delete the notification. But my thumb has a mind of its own, swiping to open the app before I can stop it.
The photo loads, displaying a pale wrist with skin so white it almost glows against the dark background. A bruise blooms beneath the surface, purple-blue like spilled ink under milk.
The caption reads, “Some people never change.”