8. Dane Gallagher
Dane Gallagher
One of the nets has another tear. I sit near the fire pit with it across my knee, working a strip of palm cord through the gap and pulling the weave tight. The rhythm comes easy—loop, pull, knot.
A few strands of hair fall into my eyes. I blow them away and keep going. Two stitches later, they drop back down. This time they stick to my forehead before sliding into my line of sight.
I shove them back and keep working.
The tear starts to close after another knot. The cord bites into my fingers as I pull it tight.
Then the hair falls again.
“Fuck.”
I drag my fingers through it, tucking it behind my ear. It holds for a few seconds. Then, as soon as I reach for the next section, it slips loose again.
“Your hair’s too long.”
I don’t look up. “It’s fine.”
Another knot, and the strands fall forward again.
Charlotte snorts from somewhere near the shelter. “It’s halfway down your neck.”
I pull the cord tight before answering. “Just sharpened the knives. I’ll cut it later.”
That’s how I’ve always handled it—grab a blade and hack off whatever is in the way. Not pretty, but it gets the job done.
“I could cut it for you.”
My hands stop mid-stitch, and I glance over my shoulder.
Charlotte’s sitting on one of the flat stones, one knee pulled up, watching me work.
“I got pretty good at cutting Ryan’s.”
The memory comes to mind—Ryan sitting on a rock while Charlotte stood behind him with scissors, hair falling as he tried to tell her how to do it. Of course, she did what she wanted anyway.
The first attempt was rough. One side shorter than the other. He didn’t let her forget it for weeks. But she stuck with it, and his hair actually started to look decent. Better than anything I’ve ever managed with a knife.
I watched from a distance, pretending to work while she stood behind him, focused.
I wanted to ask her to cut mine, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
I look back at her now. “You never offered before.”
She shrugs, a small smile tugging at her mouth. “Figured you’d rather wrestle a shark than let me near you with scissors.”
A laugh slips out before I can stop it. “You’re not wrong.”
I run a hand through my hair again, feeling the longer strands at the back of my neck. Yeah. It’s out of hand.
I shrug. “Fine.”
Her eyebrows lift a little. “Really?”
“Sure. Why not? But if you mess it up, I’ll never let you hear the end of it.”
Charlotte grins. “I couldn’t do worse than you.”
I chuckle. “Debatable.”
She pushes to her feet, dusting off her hands. “I’ll go to the yacht and grab the good scissors. Unless you don’t care—then I’ll use the ones we butcher fish with.”
“Definitely the good scissors.”
I watch her head toward the yacht, then go back to the net. By the time she makes it back, I’ve finished the last knot and set it aside.
Charlotte unwraps the scissors and tests the blades with a quick snip.
She gestures toward one of the logs by the fire. “Sit.”
I raise a brow. “Bossy.”
She lifts the scissors. “Watch it. I’m armed.”
She points at the log again. “Come on before I change my mind.”
I shake my head and get up, brushing the sand from my hands before crossing the clearing.
She steps in behind me, dragging the little driftwood table closer. Then her fingers slide into my hair. They move slowly, combing through the strands at the back of my head, lifting and separating.
Her nails scrape lightly across my scalp, and my reaction is instant. A sharp line of sensation down my spine… straight to my cock.
Fuck.
I stare out toward the beach like nothing happened.
“Are you nervous? You seem nervous.”
“No. I’m fine.” My response is too quick.
Her fingers move through my hair again, slower this time. “I’m just figuring out what I want to do with it.”
Another pass, just as careful, sending a tingle through my body.
I clear my throat. “It’s okay. I’m trusting the process.”
She works through another section, then lets out a small laugh. “You know you can relax, right?”
“What?”
“I can feel how tense you are,” she says, fingers still moving. “You’re acting like I’m about to take off your ear.”
“That’s a reasonable concern.”
She laughs. “How short do you want it?”
I shrug. “Short.”
“That’s not helpful.”
“Short enough it stays out of my eyes.”
She runs her fingers through it again, considering. “That leaves a lot of room for interpretation.”
“I trust you.”
“Dangerous choice.”
“Just don’t make me look like I lost a fight with a crab.”
She snorts. “Even then, it would still be an improvement over your usual method.”
“Hey, my method works.”
“If you say so. But time to try my method.” The scissors close with a soft snip, and a lock of hair falls past my shoulder, landing in the sand. “Too late to back out now.”
She shifts closer as she works, moving around the log to get a better angle. The scissors snip softly near my ear. Loose strands slide down the back of my neck, her fingers brushing them away. The contact is quick, but my shoulders tense anyway.
Another snip and more hair falls.
She leans in to check the line, and that faint scent of coconut and flowers drifts past me. I wouldn’t have paid attention to it before. Now it’s impossible not to.
Her hand moves through my hair again, lifting a section while the scissors trim the ends. A light scrape of her nails follows, and I fix my gaze on the horizon.
It’s just a haircut, Dane. That’s all this is.
She steps around to face me, checking the other side. As she passes, her thigh brushes my knee—brief, barely there—but my body notices.
I clear my throat and keep my eyes forward.
Behind me, the scissors click again. “Hold still.”
“I am.”
“You moved.”
“I breathed.”
“Same thing.”
Another lock falls, sliding over my shoulder before dropping into the sand. She leans over slightly to check her work, her arm brushing mine as she reaches across.
I go still, focusing on the horizon.
Just a haircut. Nothing more.
She circles around again and stops in front of me.
“Hold on,” she says, tugging lightly at the sides.
Then she steps between my knees.
I go rigid.
She tips my chin up with her fingers. “Look straight ahead.”
I do—though that puts my eyes level with her tits, which is its own problem.
For a second, my brain stalls, not entirely sure where “straight ahead” is supposed to be when she’s standing this close.
My attention dips before I can stop it. I drag it back up just as quickly.
She doesn’t notice because she’s focused. Thank fuck.
Her fingers comb through the front of my hair, lifting a section as she studies it, brow slightly furrowed. The scissors hover, then lower again as she rethinks it.
“Hmm.”
Her knee brushes mine as she leans in closer. The space between us shrinks, and it feels a lot smaller than it should.
Charlotte squints, tilting my head with a light touch of her fingers.
“Stay still.”
“I’m not moving.”
“You’re thinking.”
I blink up at her. “What?”
She smiles, still focused on the section of hair between her fingers. “You get this look when you’re overthinking.”
The scissors snip, and a lock of hair falls past my shoulder. I barely register it. Because now she’s right there. Closer than before.
She dips slightly to check the line, bringing her even nearer. For a second, the scissors hang loose in her hand while she studies her work.
And suddenly we’re face-to-face, close enough that I feel her breath when she exhales.
My eyes lift—straight to hers.
I’ve seen Charlotte’s eyes nearly my whole life. Just never like this. Not from inches away. Not with nothing between us.
Up close, they’re not one color. Green and brown, layered together, with flecks of gold that catch the light when she moves. And there’s a darker ring around the edge.
I’ve never let myself notice that before.
Her focus stays on my hair for a second longer. Then her gaze flicks up, meeting mine.
Everything else falls quiet. The wind, the waves, the constant hum of the island—it all fades into the background.
Neither of us moves, and the moment stretches longer than it should. Too long.
Something shifts. It’s subtle and hard to name. And before I can stop it, my gaze drops from her eyes to her mouth.
Charlotte’s lips part as she concentrates. I’ve seen her mouth countless times, but I’ve never paid attention to it like this.
They look soft. The light catches her lower lip, and I can’t look away. Then she runs her tongue over it, like she doesn’t even realize.
My reaction is immediate. Sharp enough to knock the breath out of me.
For a second, my mind blanks. Then it goes somewhere it shouldn’t.
What would it feel like to kiss her?
The thought hits fast and vivid. Too vivid. My brain jumps ahead before I can stop it—closing the distance, pulling her closer, the space between us gone.
I shut it down just as quickly.
What the hell is wrong with me?
The thought cuts clean through everything else, snapping the moment in half.
She’s my sister. That alone should’ve stopped it. Should’ve been enough.
But it wasn’t.
I force my gaze away, locking it on the horizon over her shoulder like distance might help reset something in my head.
Get it together.
Charlotte shifts in front of me, still focused on what she’s doing, completely unaware. Of course she’s unsuspecting. She’s not the one thinking like this.
The realization settles heavy in my chest. And then another thought follows, colder.
If she knew. If she had any idea where my head just went—
My stomach turns.
She wouldn’t just disappear for a while like she sometimes does. She’d be gone for good.
I can see it too clearly—her packing up, heading back to the other side of the island, putting distance between us that wouldn’t close again.
Something tightens in my chest.
I can’t lose her like that. Not again. Not because of something I should’ve been able to control.
So I shove the thought down, lock it away, and keep my eyes fixed straight ahead.
Because if Charlotte ever found out, nothing between us would survive it.
I keep my gaze fixed past her shoulder, out toward the stretch of sand where the tide is slowly creeping back in.