Chapter 5
Five
EVIE
A fter days of living off Callum’s leftovers, which he graciously leaves in the fridge without a word, I’m at my wits’ end. I haven’t been able to write a word since that first night I arrived. Apparently, all this nothingness is not conducive to productivity. I need to get to the mainland.
I wander around the lighthouse, exploring.
It’s not as cold as it was when I first arrived.
The sun is actually warming my face. There are other outbuildings tucked away near the tree line.
I cross the swaying grassy area. The weathered wooden doors are all shut tight.
No doubt the warped frame is keeping them bound in place.
I pull on the long metal door handle of the first building. It doesn’t budge. My imagination takes hold, coming up with what these mysterious shacks could hold.
The steady rhythm of an axe hitting wood floats over the island.
Callum is out in the sunshine as I am. His chores keep him occupied.
So much so, I rarely see him unless I go out looking for him.
Which I have done all of once and never again.
I don’t understand the no-speaking thing.
Has he been alone so long that communicating is something he doesn’t participate in anymore?
But then, I saw him talking with the harbormaster. I think his name was Emmett. So it’s just me, then.
Brilliant.
I scoff at the thought and harrumph at the stubborn door.
This is not getting me any closer to the mainland.
With no hope of getting into the writing zone, I need to find a way across the water.
I can’t wait another week. Between the man not speaking to me and having him trudge through the living space multiple times a day to tend to the light at the top of the lighthouse, I’m harried at best.
So much for Livvy’s plan.
What I wouldn’t do for a minute or two of Wi-Fi.
Spurred on, I decide to walk the shoreline of the western side of the island. Maybe I can sit on the jetty and inspiration will strike.
Stranger things have happened, right?
I make my way toward the rocky shoreline.
And it’s when I’m almost at the jetty that I see a gravel path that swings left, heading south.
The curious writer in me can’t resist. I duck down the path and pick up the pace.
A hundred feet or so along I find a smaller ramp jutting out into the water. And tied to it...
A rowboat.
Now this I can manage.
Who doesn’t know how to use a rowboat?
Not that I’ve ever captained one before. Is that the right word? Do you captain a rowboat, or is that too ridiculous?
Two oars lay in the center of the most seaworthy-looking rowboat I’ve ever seen. Its white hull and black-trimmed outline floats to the steady swell of the waves that softly caress the little cove it sits in. The name Lassie is in hand-painted black script letters.
Excited, I rush back up the path and into the house. I gather up my bag, phone, and my cap, just in case. Running out the door, I tug my coat from the hook and slam the door behind me.
Shit. So much for being covert.
I speed walk down to the rowboat and throw my belongings in before stepping down into the small vessel. I untie the two ropes holding my only hopes of escape in place. Sinking onto the bench seat, I run a hand over the handles of the oars. I can do this.
I send my heroines into raging battles with only their wit and a sword.
Surely, I can handle a rowboat. If it took twenty minutes in Firefly to get here, I’m guessing it will take me an hour or so to row to the mainland.
But math has never been my strong suit. In any case, I need to get off this island.
I need supplies, and if Callum can’t be bothered to help, I’ll make my own way.
Sliding one oar over the edge, I hook it into the oarlock.
It sinks up to its metal casing, securing it in place.
After doing the same to the other oar, I lean over and push a hand against the ramp, sending the small boat away in the water.
The thrill of something akin to main character energy at the start of an adventurous journey slips through my veins.
I smile to myself, feeling in control of something for the first time in a long time.
I row the oars in synchronous movements through the water. And in no time, the ramp is behind me and I’m heading out into the stretch of sea between me and copious amounts of coffee and snacks. Thoughts of writing hordes of words completely sugared up spur me on faster.
Pretty soon, my arms ache. My grip aches, and I slow my pace. I look back, gauging how far I have come...
Around fifty feet from the shoreline. Ugh.
I am not giving up.
If this was my heroine, she would double down, summon her dragon, and get this done.
Wishing I had an actual dragon right now, I plow through the choppy water with so much determination it sends a hum through my ears.
As the hum turns to the drone of an engine, I swing my gaze over my shoulder.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Firefly roars up beside the rowboat, rocking it as I pretend not to notice his presence.
I keep rowing. Gritting my teeth, I send the little boat faster.
No way am I going back. I’m getting those supplies if it kills me.
Studying the horizon and finding no sign of the mainland, I realize it absolutely could.
A rope flies onto the stern of my small vessel, circling the small hook. We slow to a halt, the rowboat bumping into the fishing trawler.
Heat floods my cheeks, and I scramble forward and toss the line off. Before I can grip the oars and row to my escape, Callum lands feet first in the boat. He ties the rope off and tugs me up from the bench seat with a harsh grip, curling his enormous hand around my upper arm.
“Of all the harebrained, half-witted, idiotic ideas.” His face is feral, his jaw clenched.
“Get your hands off me!” I tug furiously, wanting out of his grasp. My arm doesn’t budge. I twist and try again, only succeeding in ending up almost wrapped around him. His scent smacks into me. The same masculine essence that’s soaked into his bedding, into his pillows that I sleep on every night.
Something low in my belly flips, and I frown as the air in my lungs peters out.
He hauls me toward the cruiser, shoving me up the side ladder, his hand unceremoniously on my ass pushing me upward. With a squeak, I land inside the trawler on my rear. He’s on deck a second later, tying the rowboat behind Firefly. Scowling, he turns us around and heads back to shore.
Dammit.
He says nothing as we moor, and I climb onto the jetty as my bag is tossed in my direction. I catch it, faltering on my feet as awkwardness sinks in. Standing like a stunned idiot as he hauls the rowboat from the water and onto the jetty like it weighs nothing, I close my gaping mouth.
All I can think of as he stalks past me, heading for the lighthouse, is he spoke to me .
I got seven words out of Callum McCreary.
And the fact that I was hauled against him, my body against his, surrounded by his body. Literally hanging from his big bear hand.
Intrigued and breathless for reasons I can’t pin down, I follow at his back all the way to the house.
He disappears into his cottage, and I pad inside the lighthouse.
When I shut the front door behind me, I lean against it, reliving the last five minutes on repeat.
It’s been an eon since I touched a man. Since one touched me.
It’s only natural to have some sort of physical reaction.
He’s all grabby-grabby, and I’m like a rag doll in his hold.
I shake my head, dislodging the thought.
I have no intention of getting anywhere close to Callum McCreary.
Big bear hands or not.
Handsome damn scowl face, my ass.
I’m here to write.
Nothing else.
The door to the cottage slams and I flinch. I walk to the kitchen window, only to see him stalk his way toward the tree line of the small forest that takes up the center of the island. Good. That’s good. The further away, the better, grumpy ass.
Defeated and no closer to fixing my food problems, I sink onto the sofa.
Running my gaze over the bookshelves, I study the tomes that Callum deems worthy of his small library.
Some reference texts, some nautical, other generic encyclopedias.
A small section of thrillers sits on the bottom shelf.
A few classics, like Charles Dickens and Mark Twain, take up space on the higher shelves.
The rest of the shelf houses gadgets. Something that looks like a sextant. A wooden box with the lid open holds a brass compass that looks antique. Curious, I rise and move to the shelves. I run a finger over the brass, marking it with a fingerprint. “Dammit.”
Plucking up the hem of my shirt, I polish it back to a shine. Everything about this place has my back up. Like I’m an intruder.
I guess I am.
Guilt follows me with every decision I make. Every meal I eat that should have been his. Every night I sleep in his bed. Dwell in his home. I wish I could give something back, make amends for the intrusion in some way.
Then I remember the fire in those eyes, the way he looked at me like I’m the stupidest girl in the world when he hauled my ass out of that boat. The branding touch of his huge mitts on my ass. My face flushes again.
Groaning, I flop back on the sofa.
Deep into my wallowing stage of self-pity, I lie there, staring up at the ceiling.
The front door opens, and heavy footsteps trod toward where I lie.
“Please leave me to my humiliation, Callum.”
He doesn’t.
Of course he doesn’t.
Instead, he plants himself at the end of the sofa, arms crossed, scowl firmly fixed as his eyes burn into mine.
“Seven a.m. Sharp. Jetty. If you’re late, I will leave without you.”
Without another word, he stalks from the house, slamming the door behind him.
I rub my hands down my face before rolling over and burying my face into the plush blue upholstery.
I scream and smack a fist onto it. My hand hits something solid.
Slipping it between the cushions, I produce a tattered journal of some sort.
The words Weather Log are gilded and embossed into the leather cover.
I toss it on the coffee table and glance at the window as he walks past it.
Most infuriating man on the planet.
No, the whole entire goddamn universe.
He better not leave without me.