18. Jp
JP
M y boots hit the slick deck of the Sunflower with a thud.
The name always makes me laugh. My sister picked it when we were kids before my parents passed away.
And when it came to me, I just never changed it.
Figured it was bad luck. I turn, reach for Sterling, and haul her up like she weighs nothing—her soaked body fitting against mine.
“What are we doing?” she bites out between chattering teeth, squinting through the sheets of rain pelting our faces.
I don’t answer right away. Just glance back at her, jaw tight, boots slipping slightly on the wet dock. If I had not run into her, I would have been almost home by now.
The storm came faster than I expected. Typical for the coast. One second it’s calm, next it’s like the sea decided to pick a fight with the sky.
“Getting dry. Getting warm. Praying for a break in the weather,” I mutter gruffly.
Her eyes narrow and she tugs at my hold on her wrist. “Is this yours? Or are you breaking and entering? Am I about to be an accessory to a felony?”
I give her a look. The kind that says don’t test me . She doesn’t flinch. “Just get on the boat, woman,” I grit out, pulling her behind me. Sick of being cold.
The wind picks up again, shrieking through the rigging like a banshee, making lines snap and groan.
Rain lashes sideways, soaking us to the bone, cold slicing through every layer like a blade. The water swells around the boat and waves slap against the piers growing harder, angrier. We don’t have time for this.
I fumble with the key, hands numb, cursing under my breath when it slips out of my grip the first time. When my fingers finally find the lock, I yank the door open, grabbing her wrist before she can say another damn word.
She stumbles forward as I haul her inside and down the narrow steps into the cabin.
I don’t let go until the door slams behind us. Until we’re out of the wind and the rain.
The second we step into the cabin, the chaos of the storm dulls to a low, distant roar.
And just like that, I’m hit with it—familiarity, memory, something sharp and soft at the same time. The smell wraps around me like a second skin. It smells like comfort. Like solitude. Like home.
God, I’ve missed this place.
She’s a vintage Hinckley—sleek lines, solid bones, the kind of boat that makes other captains look twice. My father bought her when I was barely old enough to understand what it meant to own something that moved with the wind.
After he died, I lived on her for years. Through the worst of it. Through the kind of grief that builds walls around your heart and dares anyone to climb them.
Before the pack house. Before Cass and Quinn pulled me out of my own wreckage and gave me something to belong to again.
The cabin is dark and close, warm in a way that isn’t physical—it’s just lived-in, familiar.
Reaching out blindly, my fingers scrape along the wall until they find the panel. My hand moves on instinct, guided by muscle memory from something I’ve done a million times before.
A familiar click, then a low hum as the lights flicker to life, casting the space in a dim, golden glow.
The space is tight, and I can feel her body brushing against mine with every breath. Her damp shoulder grazes my arm and I move around her, careful not to touch her more than I already am, but it’s fucking impossible in here.
My knuckles graze her hip as I crouch near the floor, wrench open the cabinet where I keep the little propane heater. I set it on a little shelf behind the only bench.
It takes a few shaky tries to get it lit—because my hands won’t fucking cooperate—but the soft whoosh of ignition finally answers the cold.
I glance up. She’s watching me, her eyes wide, wet lashes clumped together, her arms wrapped tight around herself.
She blinks, rainwater dripping from her lashes, her breath still uneven as she takes it all in.
The cabin lights cast a warm amber glow over the interior, the scent of salt, varnished teakwood, aged leather, and the faintest trace of whiskey wrapping around us like something solid. Grounding. It’s smelled like this since I was a kid.
The space is still impossibly neat—everything in its place, worn but cared for. I’ve always been a bit of a control freak when it comes to this boat. OCD, Daisy calls it. But here, it makes sense. Every bolt, every drawer, every inch of varnished teak has passed through my hands more than once.
I’ve spent years making this space mine. Safe. Steady. It’s the only place I can breathe easily. The only piece of my past I kept. Well—besides Daisy.
Sterling’s fingers trail over the polished wood of the galley counter, her touch featherlight as they skim along the edges of brass fixtures and cabinets that have seen decades of storms. Of survival. Of me.
She reaches down and picks up an old brass tea kettle I found half-buried on the beach years ago, worn and ugly as hell when I hauled it home. I spent a week sanding and buffing it until it shined. She turns it over in her hands with a soft, amused smile, that has me unbearably curious.
Then she bends over to look at the old photograph pinned to the rail above the little gas stove. It’s of me and Daisy standing on this boat with my arm around her.
Our first trip out alone after our parents died, I thought I was broken. I was seventeen and Daisy was fifteen. But that trip ended up being what helped me pull out of my grief enough to realize that Daisy needed me.
Sterling’s eyes go wide, her expression softening. She reaches up her hand and gently runs her fingers over our faces. Like she’s seeing me—really seeing me—for the first time.
“JP…This is your boat?” she asks, her voice quiet, like the weight of it just hit her. “How old were you here? You look like kids.”
Her voice is barely above a whisper, softer now, curious, like she’s awed by it.
She looks up at me softly with open curiosity. Genuine interest.
Her gaze flicks around the cabin, taking her time; she’s cataloging every detail. The smile she wears is small but real, her eyes lit with quiet wonder.
Like she actually likes it here. Like she likes that this is mine.
I don’t answer. Because I’m too busy watching her.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispers, turning back to me. “You must have done so much work to it.”
I shouldn’t care.
I shouldn’t care that she’s looking at my boat like it’s something rare and precious. That she’s touched by it in a way no one else has ever been.
But fuck me—I do.
“How old is it? It feels classic but also new?” she asks with an eyebrow raise, and the combination of her quizzical face and the fact that she is drenched, dripping, is adorable. It’s so damn cute, I stare at her for a beat longer than necessary.
I clear my throat, dragging my gaze away, reminding myself that I brought her here to get warm and dry—not to stand around gawking at her like some lovesick idiot. I reach past her into the cubby and pull out the fluffiest towel I can find.
“She’s older than both of us put together,” I mutter, nodding toward the boat.
Sterling arches a brow, stepping further into the cabin. She should be tense, soaked as she is, but instead she moves like she belongs here—comfortable now, despite the heat still coiling between us.
I hold the towel out, but instead of handing it over, I wrap it around her myself, letting my hands linger a beat too long on the edges.
“She?” she asks, her lips curving slightly, taking the edges of the towel into her hands.
Our bodies are only a few inches apart, I’m so tall that there’s really nowhere else for me to go.
Her sweet cinnamon scent is thick in the air.
Her heartbeat picks up and a sudden spike in her scent tells me she likes what she sees.
“Boats are always she ,” I grumble, shifting my weight and releasing the towel. “And yeah, she’s mine. Got her from my dad. I lived here before I moved into the pack house.”
Sterling’s brows lift slightly, like that surprises her.
“You lived on a boat?”
“For years,” I admit.
Her expression shifts again, filing that information away, as if it means something to her and she suddenly has a thousand more questions.
Then she smiles, brushing her fingers over her forehead and pushing her wet strands behind her ear. “That’s…actually kind of amazing.”
I shouldn’t like the way she says that.
Shouldn’t like the way she’s looking at me, like she sees something in me no one else does.
But I do. I really do.
And suddenly, it’s hard to remember why I shouldn’t want her. Why I can’t court her.
“You always take people here?” she asks, tilting her head. She’s trying for non-chalance, but I can tell—it’s not. There’s a seriousness behind it.
I scoff, rolling my shoulders, palms finding the back of my neck. The flicker of possible jealousy in her voice hits me low and hot, settling in my chest like an invitation.
“No.”
Her smile widens, the relief in her voice impossible to miss. “So just me, then?”
That flirty lilt in her tone wraps around me like silk—and then her scent flares. Sweet. Spiced. Goddamn intoxicating. It nearly knocks the breath out of me.
I swallow hard, trying to keep my body from trembling, from reacting. She leans in just slightly, almost not realizing she’s doing it. And fuck if I don’t love it.
“I don’t make it a habit to bring anyone here,” I murmur, voice rough. “This place has always been my escape.”
I bend down and rummage through the stowed bin under the bench, pulling out an old hoodie—soft, warm, and dry. Turning my back, I strip off my soaked shirt and drag the sweatshirt over my head. Not the easiest task when you’re built like a damn oak tree.
I hear it—the sharp intake of her breath—and glance over my shoulder just in time to catch the flush spreading across her cheeks. A deep, male satisfaction rolls through me. I take my time pulling the hoodie down, maybe a little longer than necessary.
“So why bring me?” she asks, voice softer now. Curious. Real.