Drift

Chapter 8

Cloudy but clearing in the afternoon

My loafers almost skip along the gravel path to the wharf. I’m exhausted, but finally, it’s Thursday.

Where do the weeks even go? Workdays vanish in a blur.

This morning, a toddler decided she no longer wanted to wear anything but her sandals. Her poor mum. I fashioned a toga for the little girl from a sheet in the storeroom cupboard. A knot of twine around the middle, and she happily modeled her new “Oga” for everyone in the waiting room.

Something exciting always happens.

But I miss spending my days tucked in the corner of the library, buried under a pile of old books. The clinic smells too clean. There are no musty pages to pore over. And it’s so yellow. The walls, the blinds, and even the waiting room chairs are the same shade of spoiled clotted cream.

The only things that break up the monotony are the dozens of flowers Luke has delivered every day. Vases dot the waiting room, but the cards are locked safely in the top drawer of the reception desk.

I tried to read Little Women to make you swoon with some meaningful quote, but I’ve decided to rent the video instead. Have you seen it? Promise me it’s good. The cover doesn’t inspire much hope. L.

Luke’s cards are charming. Not enough for me to forgive him, but charming all the same. And at least he’s honest…about some things…

I duck along the path that winds behind Mulligan’s.

Dare Watson is there. I don’t know what I expected him to look like, but he’s dark all over.

His hair—including the carpet on his forearms—his clothes, and clearly, his mood.

Flint gray eyes scowl at me as he swings a trash bag into the dumpster out back.

I don’t stop to wave. He’s slightly terrifying. “Hi, Mullie!” I call over my shoulder.

“Hi?”

He has no idea who I am, but I know about him. Always chasin’ tail, that’s what Sawyer said. I stifle a laugh and keep hurrying down the path.

The scene waiting on the other side is so familiar. My steps falter, and I suck in a deep breath. Familiar, but not the same.

Luke and Sawyer stand at the edge of the wharf.

They couldn’t be more different. Flannel and jeans next to sleek business casual.

Sawyer’s head hangs low, his hands stuffed in his pockets, and he’s listening to whatever story Luke is telling with lots of big hand movements.

What do those two talk about? Sport? “The game?” I grimace.

Luke’s head turns. He must hear the crackle of gravel under my loafers as I come down the path.

“Elsie.” Surprise edges his voice, but he smiles.

A sharp pain stabs between my ribs to see him across the sand with the sunset glowing in a halo around his dark hair. We could have been so good together. He ruined it. But I refuse to be rude to him. It will only be awkward for Sawyer.

I force a smile and offer Luke a simple “Hi” before turning to the man beside him. “Are you ready to go?”

Sawyer jerks his chin down. “We finished late. Mind if I stop by my place on the way through so I can wash up?”

“So.” I waggle my eyebrows. “It’s my turn to see you in a towel, huh?”

His cheeks flush, and he rubs the back of his neck. “Aw, well…”

Luke glances between us, frowning, and my stomach plummets to my loafers. It’s too late. The words are already out of my mouth. I didn’t mean for that to sound so dirty. Now I really have embarrassed Sawyer.

I stumble over an apology, but Sawyer smiles. “You’ll cop an eyeful eventually, I s’pose.” He claps a hand on Luke’s shoulder. “Cain can fix you up with whatever you need for the restaurant tonight.”

There are no goodbyes.

Just as Luke opens his mouth to speak, I square my shoulders and turn my back on him. My attention focuses on gingerly tiptoeing through the sand beside Sawyer.

His brow furrows when he glances down at my feet. “Sorry,” he says. “I forgot you wear those.” My loafers and knee-high socks look ridiculous sinking into the sand beside his rubber boots. “I should’ve taken the path.”

“Maybe I should just buy some shoes like you.”

“A lady like you isn’t wearing boots like these, Elsie Hoskins.”

I tilt my chin. I can’t help but give him a soft smile.

“What?” he says, an edge of self-consciousness to his voice.

“You always call me by both names.”

“It’s got a nice sound to it. Does it bother you?”

I shake my head. “Not one bit.”

I enjoy hearing that name better than Elsie Whitehall. I was the human appendage of a tech mogul for such a long time that I forgot what it was like to have my own identity. My steps land weightless after being acknowledged as my own person again.

“Tell me your middle name,” Sawyer says, “and I’ll add it into the mix. Change it up a bit.”

“Prudence.”

His mouth presses into a hard line. “I reckon I’ll just keep callin’ you Elsie Hoskins.”

I grin. He clearly isn’t a fan of my parents’ choice. “What’s your surname?”

“McLeod.”

“And your middle name?”

“Jude…of all fuckin’ things.”

“I think that’s a nice name.”

He grunts.

“Sawyer Jude.” I slyly add, “SJ.”

“Nope.”

“What! That’s a great nickname!”

“Want to hear a better one?”

“Please.”

“Sawyer.”

I laugh. He’s blunt and stubborn, and he swears, well…

He swears like a sailor. But I like him.

A lot, I realize. He’s safe. Not to look at, though.

I peek at him from the corner of my eye.

He’s rugged and a little unpolished, but not scruffy.

His hair is always wind-swept and perhaps a little long, but he keeps his beard neatly trimmed. His fingernails are impeccable.

Sawyer’s head swivels ever so slightly until I catch the side of one hazel eye. “What’s caught your attention, Elsie Hoskins?”

You.

My cheeks heat, but I hide the shock of realizing just how handsome he is behind a shaky smile.

“Nothing.” I pointedly add, “Sawyer.”

He dips his chin in a nod. He’s happy with that.

I avoid paying any attention whatsoever to the hammering in my chest by scanning the parking lot. Where’s Sawyer’s…truck? He’s big. He has to drive some kind of truck.

He doesn’t slow when we pass the only pickup left in the lot. “This way.” He jerks his head toward the road. “I usually walk to work.”

After we pause for me to tip the sand out of my loafers, I scurry beside him to keep up. “What about all your…stuff?” I can’t name a single piece of equipment he needs to catch lobsters, but surely he needs…things?

“Everything I need is on the boat.”

“What about lunch?”

“Cain’s wife packs it.”

“For both of you?”

“Yeah. She said somethin’ once about eternal gratitude.” Sawyer grins. “I introduced them.”

The walk is quiet. It isn’t an awkward silence where I panic about what I’ve done wrong or struggle to think of what to say next.

It’s a snug sort of coziness. If I turn my head to peek at Sawyer, he responds by meeting my gaze with a smile.

Only the occasional car passing us along the road interrupts the steady rhythm of our footsteps.

“This is me,” he says.

Wait just one second…

I whip a look over my shoulder. The wharf is hazy behind us, but the beach still hugs the road, and the deep blue of the ocean waits just beyond.

My jaw goes slack. “You live on the waterfront?”

“Not quite.” He points to the house on the corner.

It’s an outdated style you don’t see as much on the mainland anymore: split-level, timber on top, and whitewashed brick below.

But the weatherboard is freshly painted—thankfully, not cream but a quiet shade of blue.

I can see why he’s so conflicted about building an entertaining area now.

The yard is enormous, but it’s all grass dotted with a few neatly pruned trees.

“She’s nothing fancy, but…” Sawyer glides an affectionate hand along the picket gate as he passes through.

“I didn’t realize you lived so close to the bay.”

“No point in me tryin’ to escape the ocean. Except, uh….” He sniffs the sleeve of his flannel shirt. “Maybe when it’s on me.”

I swat his shoulder. “You smell fine.”

“Would you forget your manners and tell me if I didn’t, Elsie Hoskins?”

“Um…”

“Take a whiff then.”

“Wh-what?”

His eyebrow arches. A challenge. Well, two can play his game. I accept. Hesitant, I lean forward, aiming for his shoulder, but my nose instinctively edges closer to his chest.

“O-oh…”

No hint of lobsters or fish or whatever otherworldly creatures swim beneath his boat. He smells like the ocean and fresh air…and… God, that cologne. He smells delicious. Better than musty old books. I want to bury my face in the middle of his chest and stay there forever.

“That bad, huh?” he says.

I jerk back. “S-sorry.” The checkered lines on his flannel sway until I blink enough times for the world to steady again.

“It won’t take me long to wash up,” he says.

Sawyer unlocks the front door and heads straight in.

I step inside behind him. Downstairs is narrow, nothing much to look at, with two doors and a neat stack of boxes, most with labels that say Tools but one that says Christmas lights.

That’s the biggest box. How many lights can a man possibly need at Christmas?

“You comin’?” Sawyer calls back from halfway up the stairs.

Flashing a sheepish smile, I scramble after him. When I reach the top, I pause. The space opens suddenly, and beyond the hardwood floors, the white walls, and an oversized cream sofa, the ocean stretches out in a wide, uninterrupted sweep of blue.

“Wow,” I breathe. “This view is…”

“Pretty damn beautiful?” Sawyer suggests.

Speechless, my eyes wide, I only manage to nod.

“Only the houses up there have me beat.” He flicks a look at the mansion sitting on the cliff. Does he know that’s Luke’s place? “But I decided a long time ago to live a different sort of life.”

“You wanted something simpler?”

He nods. “I used to have a bigger crew and a second trawler, but I got tired of workin’ seven days a week just to be in debt to the bank. My family didn’t approve. My ex…” He puffs out a breath.

I reach out to touch his arm. “Oh, Sawyer. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t feel bad about her. She made her choice, and I’m not sorry she walked out. Everyone treated me like I was fuckin’ crazy when I sold up and moved here.”

“Bravery doesn’t always mean doing more.”

“You get it.” He tilts his head slightly and smiles. “One day, you can tell me the story about how you ended up here.”

My heart drops to my loafers. “Oh.” Does he need to hear that story? The sordid tale of my first genuine love started out strong, but by the time he “made it,” the quiet girl who supported him through the bad times didn’t fit how he wanted to spend the good times. “I, um…”

“One day. Hosko.”

I fake a scandalized gasp and press my palm to my cheek. “You did not just call me Hosko again.”

He grins. “I might have.”

“But I can’t call you SJ?”

“You can not.”

“What about…Skip?”

“Jesus. No.” He grins. “I’ll grab that shower now. Make yourself at home. I’ve got tea. None of your fancy cups, but you’ll find mugs in the cabinet beside the stove.”

When he disappears from the room, I don’t bother heading to the kitchen.

I park my bottom on the sofa, take a deep breath, and close my eyes.

There’s a feel to Sawyer’s place. It’s calm.

Peace almost hugs the walls. How many minutes pass when I count my breaths?

Five? I could sit here all night and never notice time slipping away.

My eyes flutter open and drift around the room. A TV sits in the corner. A guitar is propped beside the shelves lining the side wall, just before a short hallway. No books. He has vinyl records—hundreds of them. I smile. Why didn’t he mention how much he loves music?

“That’s my favorite spot.”

Sawyer wanders in fresh from the shower, rubbing at his damp hair with a towel before slinging it around his shoulders.

He’s changed into dark jeans, and with his T-shirt stretched tight across his arms, I notice he has more tattoos.

The black outline of an octopus—or something with tentacles—on his forearm is the one I’ve seen before, but there’s a whole underwater scene that disappears beneath his sleeve.

I shouldn’t stare, but…

Those arms. Chunky, manly biceps with so many veins. I swallow.

And he notices.

“I haven’t gotten around to finishin’ this one.” He points to the tattoo on his forearm. “I started it in Indonesia.”

“You’ve traveled?”

“Only to Southeast Asia a couple of times. It takes a fuckin’ lifetime to get anywhere from all the way down here.” He cocks his head. “I bet you’ve been to lots of places.”

Every continent. Too many places to name. “I’ve seen a bit of the world.”

“Like how you know a bit about antiques?”

I laugh.

“I can imagine you trailin’ around a museum… Lookin’ at everything…” He smiles as if he really is imagining it. “You must be right at home there.”

“I’m like a piece of the furniture.”

“But there’s more to the story, isn’t there?”

“Wha–what do you mean?”

“You never tell me much about your past. Some people, you can’t shut them up. You know everythin’ about them right down to the color undies they’re wearin’ within about five minutes. But you…”

I pretend to be enthralled by how the button on my cardigan swirls around. “Sometimes, when you start a story, even an innocent one about books or traveling, you end up revealing a lot more than you ever mean to.”

“Only to the people who are actually listenin’.”

“Are…you?”

“Of course I am. We’re friends.”

I’m not sure if I ever smiled so wide in my entire life.

Friends! “Well…friend.” I love the sound of that.

“It’s been over five minutes, so I suppose I should tell you that my undies today are a lovely shade of beige.

” They aren’t. My briefs are high-cut and hot pink but somehow cute and chaste because they have a tiny bow.

Sawyer barks a surprised laugh. “I don’t believe you for a second.”

“What!”

“You can practice your fibbin’ in the truck, Hosko. Come on. Everyone will be waitin’ for us.”