Chapter 13 #3
When he catches me watching him, he pulls back on the throttle and the boat slows. “You want to try?” he asks, gesturing to the steering wheel.
It’s cute he thinks that’s the reason I’m staring. “Is that allowed? What if I get caught driving without a license?”
He pretends to think about it before snapping his fingers. “We can pull out our keys to the city. I’m sure it works the same as a get-out-of-jail-free card.”
I shoot him a look. “Ry, I am not going to boat jail over this.” Imagine the headlines: MARITIME MISCHIEF: Lost Letter lovebirds sail into troubled waters!
“Good news, there’s no such thing as boat jail.” Just regular jail, I hear him mumble under his breath, and I groan my disapproval. “Come on, you’ll be fine. Trust me.”
I don’t have time to consider whether I do, in fact, trust him before he grabs me by the waist and tugs me toward him, maneuvering me into the tight sliver of space between the steering wheel and captain’s chair.
My back is pressed to his front, and my mind immediately flashes to all the different times we’ve been pressed against each other, all the places we’ve…
well. This is a unique form of torture. My pulse starts to hammer, and I wonder if he can hear it.
From behind, he lays his hand over mine on the throttle, his strong body wrapped around me, setting off fireworks in my nervous system.
He pushes upward with gentle pressure, and when the boat surges forward, my heart goes right along with it.
“See? You need very little power to accelerate. Do everything gradually and use a light touch, especially when turning the wheel. It’s very sensitive and responsive to even the slightest pressure. ”
Are we still talking about the boat? Is it me, or does everything he says sound sexual? I remind myself that piloting watercraft isn’t supposed to be an aphrodisiac, even if this boat does feel like one large erogenous zone.
I press upward on the throttle again and we jolt forward, catching us both off guard. He chuckles in my ear, the husky sound raising the hairs on my arm. My body’s responding like it’s been ten minutes since it last felt his touch, not ten years.
It doesn’t take me long to get the hang of it, and I love the sense of power it gives me, zooming through the waterways, speeding up and slowing down, zigging and zagging around other boats.
Salt water sprays my face with every dip and swell, damp strands of hair lashing against my cheeks, and while I’m sure the combination of wind and water is wreaking havoc on my curls, it feels so refreshing that I can’t be bothered to care.
We cruise this way for a while, with Ryder prodding me to go faster and me refusing to do so, not wanting to tempt the nautical fates (or be cited by the Coast Guard).
Eventually I surrender the wheel back to him, content to watch him from the passenger seat in companionable silence.
His announcement about taking time off had surprised me at first, but now that I’ve seen this settled, stable version of him, the break is beginning to make more sense.
This is a different Ryder than the one I knew.
There’s a lightness to him that didn’t exist before, a relaxed contentment, like the chip on his shoulder has been smoothly filed away.
I don’t know what’s caused the change in him, but I’m itching to find out.
Ryder eventually steers us into a tree-lined cove shaded by towering oaks, cypresses, and breezy palms, cutting the engine and setting the anchor with the press of a button.
The sun’s finally started to descend, bringing the temperature along with it, giving us a break from the worst of the heat.
Ryder switches on the radio, and the soft twang of country music filters through the evening air, completing the folksy Americana vibe of this whole evening.
There’s a moment of quiet where we’re both eyeing each other, perhaps equally bemused at the strange twists of fate that have found us here—alone together, on a boat in the middle of nowhere.
I’m trying to ration my eye contact, sneaking stolen peeks at him, afraid he’ll catch my gaze lingering longer than it should.
The corner of his mouth curves up in a private smile, and just like in the car, I think we’re in a competition to see who’ll break the silence first—and right on cue, my stomach growls so loudly it probably scares the fish.
He barks a laugh. “Hungry?” he asks, that teasing twinkle back in his eye. He grabs the takeout bags, then motions for me to take a seat on one of the built-in benches bookending either side of the glossy wood table stationed in the stern of the boat.
“Not sure anyone could be hungry enough to eat all this,” I quip as he starts unloading the food containers one by one, and I’m instantly salivating.
There’s lobster pasta, seafood cioppino in a thick tomato broth, roasted corn risotto, butterflied coconut shrimp, crab-and-artichoke dip accompanied by a crusty grilled baguette, mahi tacos with mango salsa, fried green tomatoes, crispy Brussels sprouts, grilled-peach-and-prosciutto flatbread, jalapeno cornbread, and a giant slice of key lime pie that looks absolutely mouthwatering.
It’s a ridiculous amount of food, enough to feed the two of us along with an army of extras.
I’m suddenly ravenous, and I know I’m about to cheat my ass off.
“So did you order the entire menu?” I ask, only half kidding, as I pop the lid off the risotto. Mmm, clarified butter and complex carbohydrates: the stuff dreams are made of.
He studiously avoids my gaze as he tears off a piece of the flatbread.
“Seriously?”
He shrugs guiltily. “I just asked for their most popular dishes.”