Chapter Five
five
hope
My last thought before plunging into the murky water is that if I owed Marissa for offering me a job, we’re officially even, because knocking me into the marina? Not what I’d call Southern hospitality. I’m pretty sure she was trying to spin me around to go back the way we came, but why? Doesn’t matter anyway—good intentions are no consolation, considering I ended up in the water, fully dressed.
Today was supposed to be all about me getting my bearings before meeting Adrian. Groggy from the cross-country drive, I arrived at Marissa’s condo well after midnight and crashed on the air mattress, but nerves woke me up early. She told me Adrian had an appointment so we’d have the day to catch up and go over the project in more depth.
At least he’s not here to see this disaster. Embarrassing enough to fall off a dock without my ex-boyfriend around to witness. I kick my way to the surface, feet heavy in my sandals, and come up for air, doing my best not to swallow disgusting marina water. A situation not helped when a PFD smacks one of my flailing arms.
Pumping my legs to spin myself around, I catch sight of a huge guy leaping off a nearby boat. The surface explodes in a splash that sends a wave of water up my nose and down my throat. I gag against the influx of salt and silt. Stinging, my eyes pinch shut.
The would-be rescuer surfaces just in front of me, and I’m still coughing, but annoyed enough to shout, “I can swim!”
My eyes are burning, but I force them open to get my bearings, blinking against the glint of sunlight on the water. The man’s face is blurry and unexpectedly close. I rub the back of my hand across my face, and the stunningly handsome face of my long-lost boyfriend comes into focus. Here, in the water, so close I can hear the rasp of his inhale, is the man I lost my heart to.
Adrian’s midnight-dark eyes meet mine, emotions churning in their depths. Surprise, concern, and...tenderness? A burst of visceral longing shoots through me, so raw it sucks the breath from my lungs.
To compensate, I drag in a gulp of air, but my mouth is so close to the surface that I inhale water instead. I gag and splutter and something bumps my arm. I recoil at the unexpected touch, but it’s only the floatation cushion.
Coughing, I swat it away. Not the most mature move, but the reality of seeing Adrian again has me discombobulated. “Get that thing out of my face!” Flail, splutter.
He shoves it back toward me. “Just take it!”
“You know I’m an excellent—” flail “—swimmer.” Splutter, cough.
My chin dips under the murky water again. Turns out it’s tough to stay afloat when you’re in shock and gagging on seawater. His arm comes around my waist and tugs me upward. I gasp and find his face inches from mine.
“Take,” he says, panting, “the cushion.”
I take it.
He releases me but stays close, treading water with steady pumps that send pulses of water against my shins. His knee bumps mine and he pulls back, eyes wide. Droplets glisten in his long, black lashes and hang suspended like crystals in the trimmed beard that adorns his once-clean-shaven jaw. Locs frame his face, the ends dipping into the water. His new look doesn’t align with the Adrian of my memories, and I blame the incongruity for the uneven tempo of my heart.
His lips are parted, breath coming fast. Which is weird, because Adrian’s as good a swimmer as I am, if not better, and the water is calm.
“Are you okay?” The question slips out in a rasp, my throat hoarse from coughing.
His thick brows pull together, lips pursed, and there he is, the sweet, serious man I remember. “Me? You’re the one swimming in a marina.” Eyes narrowed, he asks, “Don’t you know there’s a risk of electrical shock?”
“Because I woke up and chose this,” I deadpan.
Irritated, I let go of the cushion and swim for the dock. My baggy tee creates a lot of drag, and each stroke threatens to dislodge my shoes, but I kick hard to put distance between us. When I reach the ladder, I grab hold and haul myself out with zero grace. Worth noting: if this entry back into shark research doesn’t work out, I absolutely don’t have a future modeling for sexy poolside music videos.
I’ve turned around to see if Adrian needs a hand up—I don’t resent him enough to ignore common decency—but he’s already hooked his elbows over the edge. His shoulders bunch with definition, broad lats straining against his soaking wet tee. He’s always been big—whenever he wrapped me in his strong, solid arms, it felt like coming home to a safe harbor—but now his drenched shirt clings to sculpted muscles that hint at hours spent in a weight room he used to scorn as a waste of time.
With no apparent effort, he hoists his entire torso out of the water, shirt clinging to pecs and abs that have me swallowing, hard. He swings his leg over with ease and climbs onto the dock in front of me. Adrian in board shorts has always been my undoing, and I can testify some things never change. His muscled thighs are quite frankly indecent. Water slips down his quadriceps in rivulets, tracing a glistening path around his knees, and I look down at my feet to stop myself from cataloging every muscle in his familiar frame that’s changed so much.
He’s grown impossibly more handsome in our years apart, and I’m standing here with my ponytail hanging lopsided and bedraggled, bike shorts bunched in an awkward wedgie, with the Velcro on one of my sandals undone. I don’t usually spare much thought for my appearance beyond looking presentable, but it would’ve been nice for our first meeting not to happen when I just experienced the real-life version of a dunk tank.
In fact, I’ve dreamed up a lot of scenarios of what might happen when I saw Adrian again, and none of them included an involuntary swim and attempted rescue. Sometimes I pictured presenting my latest paper at a conference and running into him in the hallway afterward, where he would shower my groundbreaking findings with praise.
Other times, I imagined our paths crossing in a chance meeting at a café—he’d pick up my Earl Grey tea by mistake, see my name scribbled on the cup, and search for me across the room. Our eyes would meet, and I wave a hand as if to say, “All yours” and walk away with my head high, cool and collected... The exact opposite of my current soggy state.
Worth noting that in all my daydreams about a chance meeting with Adrian, I’m never flaunting a sexy new boyfriend. But that’s not something I care to explore, especially not with my very real, very sexy ex -boyfriend standing right in front of me.
I’m at a loss as to the proper social etiquette for this reunion. A handshake? A firm nod of professional amicability? A hello kiss?
My eyes rise to his lips at the thought. How would it feel to kiss him now? My lips tingle in anticipation of the gentle scrape of his beard, the decadent pleasure of his mouth claiming mine... Yeah, that would not set the tone for the rest of the summer.
But I never planned to be alone with him. My brain can’t handle the discombobulation. Five minutes in and my plan is falling to pieces. Here we are, alone together, and Marissa is—I glance around—there, at the end of the dock, arguing with someone. Wait, I know that person.
Shading my eyes, I squint to be sure. “Why is your sister here?” My heart sinks even further. Adrian’s sister and I used to be close, but who knows what he’s told her about me since the breakup.
The last time we saw each other was the Thanksgiving meal I shared with their family before I left. I expected to see her again in the New Year, and instead it’s been more than three. My stomach turns more sour than the time I drank a pint of expired chocolate milk on a dare in middle school. Clearly, I underestimated the myriad complications that could arise from accepting this job.
Adrian follows my gaze, then his attention snaps back to me. “Why are you here?”
“You weren’t expecting me?” I ask, though it seems obvious he wasn’t.
Sure enough, he shakes his head, which sends his hair into his eyes. He swipes it back over his head, revealing a flash of rounded biceps I do my best not to notice. If only he hadn’t gone and made his muscles even more obvious, this would’ve been easier.
Not true—he’s always been irresistible—but lying to myself is the best way to keep functioning at this point.
I open my mouth to explain, but nothing comes out. I can’t confess aloud, to my ex, that I’m so desperate to find a way back into shark research that I was willing to work with him. Especially since it turns out that willingness may not be mutual.
My teeth start chattering with the retreat of adrenaline, and Adrian’s look of confusion morphs into something mortifyingly close to pity. “You’re soaked. Let’s get you a towel and then we can sort this out.”
He turns and walks down the dock in the opposite direction of the women, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the weathered gray wood. Marissa hasn’t looked my way, and I’m hesitant to confront her with Iris around. I could wind up looking like a fool, which is pretty likely, given the morning’s events.
Against my better judgment, I follow Adrian. Heck, this whole trip is against my better judgment. Why start listening to common sense now?
The boards echo hollowly under my feet, like I’m walking to my doom, but the familiar scent of briny air is welcoming. My curls are half-dry already, skin sticky and tight, though my clothes cling to me, still sopping.
We pass several runabouts tied up at the cleats, and a few cabin cruisers. I check the boat names as we pass—Adrian and I used to try to one-up one another with finding the most outrageous ones.
I spot a sleek center console tied up near the end of the dock with the word Praespero inscribed on the bow in sloping cursive. A dark-haired man is sitting onboard, his back to us.
Forgetting for a moment what we are to one another now, I point it out to Adrian. “Look. That guy’s boat is named Praespero. ” I picked up enough Latin from taxonomy to figure out the meaning immediately. To Hope.
Joking, I say, “Do you think he named it after me?”
“What?” He glances around and must spot it, because he says, “That’s not his, it’s mine.”
I stop. Dead in my tracks. My head feels...woozy. The way he said it was so matter-of-fact, but Adrian doesn’t even own a skiff, let alone a gorgeous boat like that. At thirty, unless he’s had a massive career shift, I can’t see how he’d afford it. And the name—
“I’m going to grab you a towel, okay?” His soft words interrupt my racing thoughts. Without waiting for an answer, he heads off. Reaching the boat, he hops aboard and says something to the other man, who turns and waves, as if he expected me.
I did not expect him, and I don’t wave. My chattering teeth have given way to goose bumps by the time Adrian makes his way back, a rumpled towel in his hands. Brow knotted in concern, he settles it over my shoulders, rubbing my arms through the fabric. The friction jerks me to alertness and we lock eyes—his are deep and dark and serious, and the way he holds my gaze while he buffs away the chill awakens an answering heat inside me.
My lips part, and he steps away, movements jerky. Fumbling, I clutch the ends of the towel at my chest. The terry cloth is stiff, with the faint musty smell of something left to air dry in the summer heat, but I feel less exposed with it wrapped around my shoulders, like the fabric is a barrier to the emotions threatening to escape.
Adrian scratches at his jaw, and my eyes are drawn once again to his beard. What a difference facial hair makes on a face I know as well as my own. The beard accentuates his strong jaw, the perfect complement to his already handsome face.
“I’m going to talk to the others. Gabe is, too,” he adds, and I look up to find the other man approaching. “You could come along, or wait on the boat if you need a minute.”
It will take more than a minute to collect myself, but the offer is appealing. “You really didn’t know I was coming?”
He shakes his head.
Oof, I do not need to be a part of that conversation. “Then yeah, I’ll wait here.”
The other guy—Gabe?—comes up and smiles. “Hey, Hope. I’ll catch up with you in a bit.”
“Uh, okay.” I want to ask who he is, and how he knows my name. I want to ask why Iris is here of all places, when she barely sets foot on beaches, let alone boats. I want to ask Marissa why she didn’t want him to know about me when we’re supposed to be working together all summer. I want to ask Adrian why on earth he named a boat after me.
The questions are piling up, and before I can decide on which to ask first, he’s already headed toward the end of the dock where the women are still talking, their conversation inaudible.
Using the towel to wipe a trickle of water behind my ear, I watch Adrian’s tall figure, unable to pull my eyes away. His shoulders are hunched under the clinging material of his damp shirt, long stride purposeful, like he can’t get away fast enough. But a few steps later, he glances back, eyes dipping in a swoop that catalogs my body, the impression of his gaze lingering like a heated caress on my chilled skin.
Shaking off my body’s response to him, I tug off my hair tie and finger-comb my curls into a bun, and turn my attention toward the facts. Coming down here without talking to him was a mistake, that much is clear. Adrian wasn’t expecting me. And in a few minutes, I might have to face his sister, who may or may not demand a full explanation of why I broke her brother’s heart. Although, he doesn’t seem heartbroken. Just confused, like me.
Whatever the reason Marissa kept my arrival a secret, I’m not quitting. I didn’t swallow my pride and drive all the way down here to go back home empty-handed.
Three months. Three months of enduring Adrian, yes. But three months of working with sharks again. I can do this. I will do this. If this isn’t a practical joke, nothing will stop me from getting what I came for.