Chapter 3
Three
Something in the Orange — Zach Bryan
T hough Jupiter was a tourist town known for its rugged beaches, quaint stores and Nora’s bakery—which was a tourist destination in and of itself—it was originally a fishing port.
The dock was still active, though I’d never visited it.
Why would I? I barely went to the beach, even though it was a handful of feet out my back door.
As was the sand, the insects and the idiots swimming in the frigid Maine waters, eventually realizing that they couldn’t swim while great white sharks waited to feast on the aforementioned idiots… No thank you.
I had planned on never stepping my well-shod foot on a dock in my life.
Yet there I was. I made promises to my brother, yes, but promises were only as good as the person making them.
He should’ve known better than that. My promises were worth a lot less than the silk I slept in.
And I needed to get my mind off the pressing issue of Jasper Hayes and the ticking time bomb that was that situation—therefore, breaking promises and collecting debts was my distraction.
I pushed my shades to the top of my head as I stared at the large fishing boat in front of me.
My nose wrinkled in distaste as the scent of salt mixed with a distinctly fishy smell.
It wasn’t entirely unpleasant, I supposed, but to me, it was not appealing.
I liked my fish on a plate at Nobu, nowhere else.
The dock itself wasn’t overly busy. The larger port of Stonington was where most of the state’s fishing revenue was generated.
With a lot of boats moving to that port and Jupiter itself no longer relying on the fishing trade, I figured this dock was living on borrowed time.
I made a mental note of the location, a prime spot for investors looking to build a resort.
Which would ruin the quaint charm of the town of Jupiter but would make me a fuck-load of money.
There were a handful of boats around, men in waders and beanies giving me sideways glances.
“Keep walking, Popeye,” I told the man who eyed me for a second too long, eyes slimier than a piece of raw fish.
Granted, I looked out of place in my black pantsuit, heels and designer purse. But I looked good. Great, in fact. That didn’t give him license to stare, though, even if I did look like a proverbial fish out of water.
I’d abandoned New York, my job, my apartment, my entire existence. No way was I giving up my wardrobe.
I planned on being buried in Louboutins, Yves Saint Laurent, and my sins.
“Hello!” I called out, leaning over the dock to knock on the side of a barnacle-crusted boat. It had seen better days, Shaw and Sons was painted in faded lettering.
No wonder they couldn’t pay their bills.
They couldn’t even afford to put a fresh coat of paint on their boat.
The invoice wasn’t for the boat itself but for the restaurant that was, apparently, connected to their business.
A casual eatery that the rest of my family frequented.
I did not. They served drinks in plastic cups.
I didn’t drink out of fucking plastic cups .
Children did. I didn’t go to a place where I was treated like a child.
Even though Nora said the lobster roll would change my life.
My life had gone through enough changes as it was. I was fine where I was, and no lobster roll would be that good. Plus, I didn’t eat bread—just another way to torture myself for sins never to be erased. And it was good for my ass.
“Hello?” I tried again. I assumed someone was there because there was a coffee cup sitting on the edge of the boat, steam wafting from it.
I resisted the urge to snatch it up and drink it since I hadn’t slept well again and had quit Coke cold turkey when I left New York.
I’d already had one coffee, but that was only the appetizer; I usually had at least three before noon—I needed some kind of stimulant to get me through these godforsaken days.
The day itself wasn’t exactly godforsaken, not with the cloudless blue sky, the balmy, salty air, the crash of the waves and the picturesque landscape.
Peaceful… Far too fucking peaceful. I needed chaos, sirens, cabs honking and skyscrapers blocking out the sun so I wasn’t blasted with the reality of just how dark my life had gotten.
The thump of boots against wood confirmed my belief that there was life within the boat.
I snapped my attention back to the moment.
I was not some daydreaming, slack-jawed woman.
I was always alert. Even there, where I doubted some fisherman would possess the skills to best me.
No man could. At least that’s the lie I told myself.
I was expecting someone older, even though the business was called Shaw even the most sheltered of those had experienced and been jaded by life in some way, shape or form.
The world was burning, billionaires were reigning, and humankind was generally awful—there was no way to escape that.
But this guy was grinning like we lived in a fucking utopia.
With his angular face, slightly crooked nose and high cheekbones, he looked like he was doing a photoshoot, cosplaying as a fisherman for some magazine.
I was immediately suspicious of him. Small-town fishermen were only attractive in Hallmark movies. He had to be a serial killer or something. Which was right on par with the men I was attracted to, and my pussy was fluttering, so it made sense.
His gray eyes were doing the same once-over of me as I was him.
“Uh-oh. Am I getting sued?” His voice was deep, thick, pleasing. Masculine. But there was also that same carefree undertone as his smile, an easygoing nature I’d never experienced—even with Kip, who did really well at pretending he didn’t have a care in the world.
“You think I’m a lawyer?” I snickered, hand on my hip, ignoring the pleasant warmth that his tone sent over my skin. My tone was not pleasant. I wasn’t capable of that.
He reached for the coffee I had noticed earlier, taking a long sip, still looking me over. He was doing it shamelessly, with a warmth to his eyes that was unhidden. A man appreciating a woman. It was honest.
And though I’d had many men check me out in my adult life, I rarely got the reaction that I did now. Toes curling in my heels, desire pooling between my legs.
It was a look, for fuck’s sake. He wasn’t tickling my clit.
“You look like a lawyer,” he answered, after swallowing another sip of his coffee“Expensive one at that.”
I tilted my head at him. “Calling someone a high-class hooker is still calling them a hooker. Same principle applies when calling me a lawyer.” My voice was low, soft, as I always ensured it was when I was throwing barbs, which was most of the time when I was speaking.
The man in front of me—maybe fisherman, maybe Shaw son, and definitely unhinged serial killer—chuckled. The sound was warm, genuine, and fuck if it didn’t make my nipples harden, just a little.
A laugh.. . I hadn’t heard an attractive man laugh, truly laugh, before.
That didn’t include Kip because he was too familiar to find attractive, and his laughs were always forced to cover up the depths of his grief.
And none of the men I surrounded myself with laughed like they didn’t have a care in the world.
The men I surrounded myself with didn’t care about the world, but they cared a fuck of a lot about money and power.
“You don’t like lawyers, I assume,” he teased, cradling his coffee.
My lips thinned, and I didn’t shift underfoot even though the wooden planks beneath my feet were killer on my heels. “Were you hyped up to have a conversation with me when you thought I was a lawyer?”
He leaned against the side of the boat, forearms resting on the hull? Edge? Whatever the fuck. “Why yes, I was. I was hyped up to have any kind of conversation with you, even if it did involve me getting sued.”
He was flirting. That was as clear as day.
He was brazen, unapologetic, and good at it.
As if flirting with strangers on docks in Maine was normal.
Maybe it was for him. Though I couldn’t imagine many women came knocking on the door of his boat.
Except maybe they did. This was a small town; he was a hot guy.
I doubt he was a secret, though I’d never heard of him.
“Well, aren’t you smooth?” My voice sounded thick from my forced distaste. Flirting, simple, without games... Not something I’d engaged in in my entire adult life.
Every interaction I had with a man was a power play at best, life or death at worst.
The simplicity of his flirting had my spine stiffening, waiting for the catch.
His posture remained casual, expression light. “I have my moments.”
Cheeky. Playful. Attractive. Warm. He was the human version of a cinnamon bun. I, on the other hand, was the human version of that blowfish that would kill you if it was prepared incorrectly.
Better known as fugu.
I’d eaten it many times.