Chapter Twenty-Three
Brew
W illis’s boat is old. Real old. Smells like salt and oil and time. The paint’s chipped in every direction, and the floor creaks like it’s got a bad knee. But the engine purrs.
They don’t build things like they used to. Willis reminds me of that fact all the time. Nothing is made to last anymore. We just use it while it still looks pretty and feels good, then discard it for the next shiny upgrade. Wasteful. Our generation is impatient and wasteful.
I angle the bow toward the back of Ida’s place, where the dock juts out like a crooked finger. The house looks cozy—yellow light through gauzy curtains, soft shadows moving inside. Nothing state of the art about it. A sturdy home that has been well lived in.
Another thing that was built to last.
Then I see her.
Brandee steps out onto the back porch in a giant sweater that looks like it is wearing her.
The hem brushes the tops of her thighs, and she’s got her arms crossed against the chill.
Her hair’s pulled back and a little windblown, and the second she spots me standing at the helm, her face splits into this gorgeous little smile that hits me straight in the chest.
“So, you want me to go out on that thing?” she calls down, arms still crossed.
I grin. “Yep. I told you we were taking a boat ride.”
“You didn’t say it involved tetanus,” she says as she takes in the old vessel.
“She’s got character,” I defend.
“She looks like she’s got ghosts.”
“She does,” I admit, holding out a hand as she starts down the dock. “The hull groans so much that Willis swears it’s haunted. I think it’s just his bad patch job with the fiberglass.”
She laughs, and I swear it warms the air. The wind lifts her hair, and she looks so good, standing there, that for a second, I forget how to breathe.
She lets me help her aboard, and when our hands touch, I feel the jolt of it all the way up my arm.
She smells like vanilla and that sea air scent that clings to Sandcastle Cove in the fall. Clean, crisp, and a little wild.
Once I have her settled aboard, we push off slowly, the boat slipping into the water like it remembers how.
The engine hums as we cruise the quiet stretch of the intracoastal.
It’s one of those weirdly still November nights—cold, but not biting.
The kind of night that carries sound for miles and makes the stars seem like they’re watching you. Following your every move.
I don’t say much at first. Just listen to her talk, watch her mouth move, watch the way she tucks her hands into her sleeves when the wind picks up.
She’s beautiful in that way that sneaks up on you—comfortably, unexpectedly.
Natural. Like home. A far cry from the made-up beauty queens I’m used to spending time with.
“You cold?” I ask.
“A little,” she says.
I cut the engine and drift us into a calm cove, the water still as glass. Then I throw the anchor and toss the old patchwork blanket across the boat floor, like I planned it all along.
“Come here.”
She hesitates for half a second, then kicks off her boots and curls up beside me. She fits against my chest like she’s been doing it forever, and I wrap my arms around her like I don’t want to let go.
Because I don’t.
“Why do I feel so good when you’re around?” I ask as I kiss the top of her head.
“Because you’ve been sucked into my awesome zone,” she says.
“Awesome zone?”
She nods. “Yep. It’s the atmosphere I choose to live in.”
“I guess that’s better than a non-awesome zone.”
“Oh, yeah. Much better. Most people walk around choosing to live in that one. They’re just miserable, sad sacks.”
I chuckle. “What makes up this zone of awesomeness?”
She shrugs. “Me, my friends, my mountains.”
“Ah, friends I got.”
“You do?”
I nod. “I believe you met a few of them.”
Her forehead creases. “I have?”
“Yeah, Sebastian and Avie, your temporary neighbors.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, I went to high school with Seb’s brother, Lennon. He and I and our friend Wade Lusk were close. We played football together.”
“Wade is Eden’s husband, right?” she asks.
“Yep.”
“And Lennon is Amiya’s man?”
I nod.
“Wow, you have great friends. They remind me a lot of my people. In fact, I’m not entirely sure Amiya isn’t Erin’s more sophisticated blonde doppelg?nger.”
“I can see that,” I agree with her.
Silence stretches between us and I decide it’s the perfect time to come clean but before I can say anything she snuggles deeper into my side and speaks.
“You know, I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” she says softly. “You and me … on a boat … at night … in November.”
“I can,” I say into her hair. “I’ve been dying to get you alone all week.”
She tips her head back to grin up at me. “So, this was your plan? Get me on the water and seduce me?”
“Is it working?”
“Depends.”
“On what?” I ask as I brush a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
“If this seduction is hot enough to keep me warm.”
Challenge accepted.
I kiss her temple, then the curve of her cheek. She shifts slightly, her hand brushing my chest, and when our eyes meet again, it’s different this time. Quiet. Real.
She’s watching me with this look—soft and expectant, like she’s waiting for me to say something I haven’t been ready to say. Like she knows.
I open my mouth. Then close it.
But she looks at me eagerly.
“I—” I start, but my throat closes.
Her gaze lifts, locking with mine. “What?”
“Nothing.” I force a smile. “I was just gonna say, I’m glad you came out tonight.”
She narrows her eyes, not buying it for a second. “You sure that’s all?”
No.
Hell no.
But I nod anyway because if I say it now—if I tell her the truth about who I am, what I’ve been keeping from her—everything will shift. And I’m not ready for that shift yet.
She lets it go. Barely. Then leans in and kisses me.
And just like that, the moment changes.
Her lips are warm against mine. Slow, sweet. Then hungrier. She presses closer, her hands finding my neck, fingers sliding into my hair, and I groan softly into her mouth as I pull her into my lap.
The blanket’s barely big enough, the boat’s rocking gently, and the air smells like salt and something heady I can’t name. My hands roam over her back, her waist, her thighs. Her sweater rides up, exposing skin I want to memorize inch by inch.
“Brew,” she whispers, breathy and flushed, lips brushing my jaw.
“Yeah,” I say, forehead resting against hers, but before she can say more—
Bang.
A loud clatter echoes across the water.
Brandee jumps. I jolt upright.
We both look up to see the motion sensor light flick on at a dock down the way. A dog barks. A porch screen slams shut.
“Just a neighbor,” I mutter, pulling her closer.
But the moment’s gone. Not completely, but enough to remind me how fragile this is.
She lets out a shaky laugh. “Way to kill the mood.”
I stroke her back. “Oh, nothing is killing this mood. Are you hungry?”
She smiles and presses a kiss to my neck. “I could eat.”
I turn the heater on, and it warms the surface of the boat as I unpack the cooler I brought along and spread the food out on the blanket before us.