Chapter 8
HANNAH
After Mrs. Reyes's orders to shut down pier two last week, it's been nothing but chaos and frustration.
I'm not super busy this time of year, but we still do a few tours and luncheons on The Mariah every month.
Now my customers have to mingle with smelly fishermen getting off Luke's charter boats as they head out and back, and I've had so many complaints.
I worked so hard to build an upscale business, and this is what it's reduced to.
The men come in today hauling a large cooler filled with fresh fish to clean and package, and it stinks to high heaven. The cabezon might not be a pretty fish, but I've eaten it and it is delicious. Still, they're smelling up my pier that I pay good money for and I'm not happy about it.
And the way their boats are crowding mine now is frustrating. Gary said it's near impossible to navigate the channel between piers with so many large vessels in there, especially with the other pier needing a twenty-yard berth.
"Hey," I hear, and my shoulders tighten before I turn to look up at Luke who ambles up to me. Every so often, I see him limping on that damn left leg, as if I’m supposed to feel sorry for him for being injured in his service.
And the damn thing gets me every time. I do feel sorry for him, but I'm also mad at him.
Had he just agreed to the festival already, none of this had to happen.
He'd have gotten the money from Dorsey and been fixing things all while his boats were out of my hair. Now we're forced into even closer contact every day, which grates on my nerves. I look down and turn back toward the water where I watch more men coming off the fishing boat.
"What," I grumble, not feeling in a friendly mood today.
Without much business to tend to in the winter, I'm most focused on my civic duties and festival planning. But there are slim pickings when it comes to locations. The Murphys’ land out west of town is okay, but it's so far away I'm afraid we won't get the draw this ocean-front property could give.
And if I choose the city center, it means traffic issues and complaints, and no band can perform after nine p.m. with the noise ordinance.
Luke just doesn’t see how perfect his place is. And nothing I say is going to make him change his mind.
He steps up closer to me, standing shoulder to shoulder, as he nods at the passing teams. The wind gusts and carries the hint of his cologne on the breeze to me, which reminds me again of how tightly he held me when he pulled me out from under those sagging boards.
It was so fast I hardly knew what was happening, and then I felt mesmerized by the way he looked at me.
It was confusing and overwhelming, and when I lie down in bed at night, it's frustrating to me that I had that response.
"I just wanted to tell you thank you…" he says, gesturing at the pier.
"For letting the guys camp out with you, I mean.
" Luke holds some rusty hardware in his hands, broken from the old dock where moorings were failing. They had to install a few more moorings on this dock, which I’m not sure are to code or spaced far enough apart, but they're there to do a job and as long as I don’t pitch a fit, Mrs. Reyes isn't going to bat an eye.
As it is, this is my fault. I did this because I got pushy and agreed to Dorsey's plan to push inspections. Then Mayor Grant gave the orders and here we are. I'm kicking myself for not leaving well enough alone.
"Yeah," I mumble, "kinda didn't have a choice.
" Staring down at my feet, I toe a bit of green algae that grows on the board next to where I stand.
I'm an idiot. I'm just too nice. I'd have given up those moorings on this pier anyway because I don't want to see those fishermen have to put their boats in dry dock any more than Luke does.
My whole economic revitalization plan goes to shit if I'm not actually caring about local businesses.
"Well, I appreciate it. And I know Tank and Sam both appreciate it too." Luke is being kind, so I should respond with kindness, but all I have is bitterness. So I excuse myself.
"I should go," I tell him, turning to walk back toward The Mariah. "I have some paperwork to catch up on." Really, I should be going to my office, but that means walking back past his office, and I would rather just hide on my party boat and sulk instead.
But rather than letting me walk off and mind my own business, Luke follows me. He doesn't say anything at first, but I hear his boots clomping and clench my jaw so I don't snap at him.
"You know, I was trying to be nice, and you just seem hell-bent on being mad at me the rest of your life."
My foot stops one step onto the passerelle and I look up at him with a hard glare. "Nice?" I hiss, narrowing my eyes further. "You wouldn't know nice if it smacked you in the face."
"Funny you say that," he grumbles, glowering at me, but I ignore him and march across the divide onto the boat.
He's infuriating to me, and he knows it. And when I feel the boat rock and know he stepped on, I turn on him again. "What are you doing!"
"I’m coming to talk to you, which if you'd have stood still long enough to listen to what I had to say, you'd know that." He stalks forward, but he looks frustrated with me, not furious.
But my blood is boiling now. I've been trying so hard to stay professional and calm, but refusal after refusal, followed by this invasion, have just pushed me to my limits. I don’t care if I did offer the pier for his fishing businesses. I'm over his attitude and I want him off my boat.
"You need to get off my boat," I hiss, clenching my jaw tighter. My teeth grind together and it aches.
"I just want to talk to you. I'm trying to be nice, Hannah." Luke moves closer, and I feel trapped. I open the door and step into the salon, thinking I might slam it in his face, but he's there, following me inside without permission.
"I didn’t ask you to come in."
"I didn't ask to come in. I just walked in. Now do you want to hear what I have to say or are you going to continue being rude to me?"
My heart slams against my ribs so hard I’m sure he can hear it.
The salon suddenly feels too small, the air too thick.
Luke stands just inside the doorway, shoulders filling the frame, eyes dark with frustration, and I hate how aware I am of him.
The way his worn sweatshirt stretches across his chest when he crosses his arms. The way his presence makes my skin feel electric even while I want to shove him overboard.
God, I’m furious with him. And I’m furious with myself because part of me doesn’t want him to leave.
"You think this is me being rude?" My voice cracks with the effort of holding everything in. "You waltz onto my boat like you own it, after everything that’s happened, and you expect me to just—"
"Hannah." His voice drops as he takes a step closer. "I’m not here to fight."
"Then why are you here?" I snap, but I can't back up. I’m trapped between the furniture and six-foot-something of stubborn, infuriating man.
Luke exhales sharply through his nose, clearly at the end of his patience.
He yanks a folded piece of paper from his back pocket and slaps it on the counter harshly.
“This. The new repair schedule. I was trying to give you a heads-up before it bites both of us in the ass, but you…” He gestures wildly, and the paper flutters off the edge and drifts to the floor between us.
I’m so angry I can’t even think straight. Before I can stop myself, I lunge down to snatch it, fully intending to crumple it up and throw it in his face. But Luke moves at the same time, bending to grab it too.
Our heads crack together hard, making me jerk away, almost stumbling.
“Ow—fuck!” he hisses as pain blooms at my temple, but it only feeds the fire. I straighten up at the exact moment he does, and suddenly, we’re nose to nose, breathing hard, eyes locked in pure rage.
For one electric second, everything freezes—the ache in my skull, the guilt clawing at my chest, the unbearable heat rolling off him. And I remember how his arm felt around me under the pier last week. Then the dam breaks.
I grab the front of his sweatshirt with both fists and yank him into me at the same time he surges forward. Our mouths collide in a violent, messy kiss. There’s nothing sweet about it. It’s weeks of pent-up frustration mingled with magnetic chemistry exploding all at once.
His hand fists in my hair at the nape of my neck, just holding me there as he kisses me harder, like he’s trying to win this argument with his mouth.
I bite his bottom lip, and he growls and pins me against the edge of the counter, deepening the kiss until I can’t tell if I’m still mad or if the anger has just burned into something hotter and more dangerous.
My emotions are a storm—guilt, resentment, all of it twisting and crashing inside me while his body presses against mine.
“Get this stupid coat off,” he snarls against my lips, already shoving the pink puffer down my arms. It hits the floor and I just keep kissing him like I hate him, because right now, I do. Or maybe I don't—I'm confused.
My hands yank at the hem of his sweatshirt. He rips it over his head and throws it somewhere behind him, taking the faded marine tee with it. I hate how good his skin feels under my fingers as I splay them on his chest.
“You’re such a prick,” I hiss between kisses, nipping at his lip. “Coming on my boat like you can just—”
“Shut up,” he growls, but there’s no heat behind the words, only raw lust. His mouth crashes back into mine as one of his hands slides under the hem of my sweater, gripping my waist like he needs to feel skin.
The contrast of his rough palm against my bare side makes me shudder. I hate how much I like it.