Chapter 13 #2
I’m still giggling when he pulls onto a gravel road a couple minutes later, eventually slowing to a stop in front of a mechanical arm blocking our entry into a private parking lot.
He taps a code onto the keypad and the barrier swings up, and as we drive in I notice a sign partially obscured by leafy palm fronds: Palmetto Grove Marina.
I gape at him once he’s swung us into a spot and killed the engine. “Are we going on a boat?”
“You’re very observant. Grab those last couple bags, would you?” he asks as he climbs out of the car, hip-checking the door closed.
“Speaking of all this food, who else is joining us tonight?” I ask, grabbing the bulging bags from the back seat. “The entire Seafolly Stingrays offensive line?”
“Cute.” He locks the car with a beep, motioning for me to follow him.
I trail a step behind him out onto a weathered wooden dock, watching my step on the worn, uneven boards.
Boats of various sizes, shapes, and body styles are docked in neat rows, and a couple of lanes over, an older man with a border collie at his heels lifts his faded ball cap in greeting, and Ryder nods back.
Something about the exchange tugs at me, though I can’t quite pinpoint what it is.
I pick my way across the decking, grateful I chose flat sandals for this outing.
Water laps at the wood pilings as we make our way farther down the floating pier, buoys tethered to crab pots bobbing gently with the tide.
The frog songs and chirping cicadas create a familiar background soundtrack that’s baked into my bones like muscle memory.
I turn my face to the sun and breathe in, letting the balmy, fragrant air whisper over my skin. “I feel like I’m in a Nicholas Sparks novel.”
He smirks. “Oh yeah? Which one?”
“Oh you know, the one that’s set in a coastal Carolina town, where the girl and guy are head over heels in love until something dramatic happens to keep them apart, but then they find their way back to each other because they’re soulmates.”
Ryder grins over his shoulder. “Ah yes, that narrows it down.”
He comes to a stop next to a sprawling boat, the hull painted a deep blue.
I know next to nothing about boats, but I do know this is a beautiful one: long and sleek with a roomy center console, quilted leather seats lining the perimeter, polished wood accents and twin motors hanging off the back.
He steps aboard effortlessly, and I marvel at this latest incarnation of him.
First he’s a pilot, now he’s a boat captain.
What’s next, an astronaut? I let out a snort.
“What’s funny?” he asks as I hand over the bags.
“You.”
He raises a single eyebrow.
“I just didn’t have both flying and boating with you on my bingo card when I woke up this morning.”
He grins up at me, bent at the waist as he unties ropes, squinting into the sun. “Don’t forget riding in a getaway car.”
“Skippering a boat,” I mutter to myself, then look around for an access point where I can hop aboard.
He made it seem easy with his long legs, but it’s not quite as simple for those of us not blessed with his height.
Sensing my uncertainty, Ryder pulls on a line that’s tied to one of the metal cleats, drawing the boat closer to the dock and holding out a hand to help me up.
“Actually, I’m the captain, and you’ll be my skipper.” He thinks about it. “Or maybe first mate is more accurate.”
I pause mid-step. “Wait a minute. You’re driving the boat?”
He makes a show of looking around the deserted, empty dock. “Who else would be doing it?”
“I don’t know, I thought maybe Old Salt over there would be joining us or something,” I say nervously, jerking my thumb over my shoulder. “And bonus, we’d get his marina dog too, so. Win-win.”
He squints in the direction I’m pointing. “Who, Stu? He manages the place.”
I stall for a beat, shifting on my feet. “It’s just, you’re the one who said we wouldn’t be alone.” I could really use another elderly chaperone right about now. Where’s Millie when you need her?
“No, I said we wouldn’t be alone at my place. I thought you’d be too nervous at the house, but I still wanted to go somewhere private.”
The word private makes me shiver, like a fingertip dragging down my spine.
A house is safe and straightforward; I can walk out the door at any time.
A boat is another type of forced proximity altogether.
All my plans for self-preservation hinge upon keeping some space between us, and yet in the span of just a few hours I’ve found myself locked in a cockpit and now climbing aboard a floating prison with him.
Voluntarily trapping myself in an enclosed space with a man I’m swimming in unresolved feelings for hardly feels like a wise choice.
He holds out his hand again, and when I hesitate, there’s a sad edge to his smile. “Is it really so scary to be alone with me?” he says softly.
The words, uttered so quietly, threaten to capsize what’s left of my composure.
A tornado of emotions swirls inside me, with fear at the top of the heap.
How can I tell him that by stepping on board this boat, I’m afraid I’ll find myself completely unmoored?
I’ve spent so much time and energy trying to move past my feelings for Ryder—hell, it took me years to even think about him without my heart racing—that if I crack this door even an inch, I’m worried he’ll blow it wide open.
It’s terrifying, I answer silently as I take his hand and step aboard, letting out a shallow, shaking breath.
Ryder squeezes my hand once before releasing it, then resumes bustling around the boat, getting things ready.
I don’t understand half the things he’s doing, but switches are flipped, buttons are pushed, and screens are booted up.
It’s surreal to see him so at home in yet another new environment, such a far cry from a movie set. What else has changed with him?
“A lot,” he answers, and too late I realize I spoke out loud. “I grew up.”
I flush. Get it together, Scarlett. “If I’m skippering, do I at least get a cool hat?” I ask, running my palm along the gleaming wood dashboard. “You know, like the kind with braided trim, or maybe a tricorn style?”
He snorts. “Settle down, Captain Jack Sparrow. You’re a skipper, not a pirate. Do me a favor and untie that line,” he says, pointing at a piling near the bow of the boat.
“Dare I ask how you managed to find a boat on such short notice?” I ask as I unknot the last rope from its post and we start drifting away from the dock. “You snap your fingers and things just appear?”
He makes a sound like pshh. “Please, I can make it rain out here.”
Not really an answer, I note as he fires up the engine, but the roar of the motors drowns out any opportunity for follow-up questions.
We set off, slowly at first as we idle through the no-wake zone, then faster once we’re farther from the dock. I grip the console as we crest some chop, the wind that’s whipping through my hair a welcome reprieve from the stagnant humidity.
I drink in our surroundings as we cruise through the inlet.
Fish dart around the bow as we cut through the brackish water.
Seagulls arc overhead while ospreys dive-bomb from their bulky nests built atop channel markers.
Ryder draws my attention to a white egret, long legged and regal, searching for food along the muddy banks.
Sanderlings peck the sand, the marsh grasses behind them swaying gently in the breeze.
An older couple waves at us from a passing boat, an American flag flapping majestically from its stern.
It’s tranquil in a way I can’t describe, a serenity I haven’t felt in years.
I feel fully present and at peace in a way I rarely do.
I suppose it’s true what they say: There’s something healing about the ocean.
I inhale, filling my lungs with the briny, salty-sweet Atlantic air, and come to a decision: Tonight, I’m going to relax.
I’m going to cast off this suffocating suit of armor, lay down my weapons, drop my guard, and just be.
And for once, I’m not going to worry about tomorrow.
I watch Ryder out of the corner of my eye, grateful he can’t read my thoughts.
It’s fascinating, seeing him come alive on the water like this.
This seafaring hobby of his is something new.
Back when we were together, he had no boating experience whatsoever (or at least, none that I knew of).
Now, he handles the vessel with ease, like he’s been doing it all his life, like he was born on a boat deck.
Any trace of the pampered, pretty-boy celebrity has given way to resourcefulness and rugged masculinity.
Here, he’s a man’s man, the type of guy who could catch and cook his dinner with nothing but his bare hands and an open flame.
And I’ll just come right out and say it: This version of Ryder is working for me.
It’s competence porn in its purest form.
Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate evolved, sensitive men as much as the next girl, but there’s a reason we’re all watching that guy chop wood on TikTok.
His focus on navigation means I can stare at him undetected, and I can admit now what I haven’t wanted to: Time has done nothing to dull my attraction to Ryder.
If anything, it’s amplified it. Looking at him is a pleasure.
His skin is tanned, his body strong and solid, his eyes vibrant and sparkling.
Whatever high-priced trainer he’s working with is well worth the money; he’s put on a solid twenty pounds of muscle since I last saw him.
I can barely tear my eyes from his flexing bicep as he works the throttle, skillfully steering us through the waterway.
The wind has made a mess of his movie star haircut, giving me a glimpse of the ruffled boy I once fell in love with.