Weathering The Storm (Perfect Catch #1)

1. Nick

Nick

It’s five a.m. when I step out of the Belk Harbor office. Sunrise isn’t a thought on the horizon yet, the skies blending into the unblemished, oil-slick black of the water.

A light dusting of snow floats through the air like powdered sugar under the amber glow of the pier lights, and the dock is alive with the bustling shadows of crews getting ready to depart.

They’re all here for the same reason we are. Red king crab. Bristol Bay’s very own gold.

Pots hit the water in two days, and from there, the hunt is on—every crew working to harvest our share before the brutal winter sets in.

Crab season isn’t what it once was. The ocean feels man’s impact greater than the land, but most people will never know her the way we do. They’ll never witness her pain, never realize how deeply we all need her.

Quotas are tighter now. Windows are shorter, and that’s if the fishery opens at all.

It used to be that four months of labor could comfortably line the whole crew’s pockets for the remainder of the year, but now we’re running cod through March, salmon through July.

For me, it doesn’t make much of a difference. My wallet’s plenty thick, and nobody’s relying on me. Nobody’s missing me, waiting for me to return.

But that’s not the case for my guys. It’d be nice to send them home for the holidays with a paycheck that’ll buy them a few extra months with their families. They bust their asses out here. They’ve more than earned it.

I’ve walked to this harbor slip more times than I’ve walked to my own front door. It’s muscle memory, sidestepping the wobbly boards on the ramp that could’ve used a fresh set of screws about a decade ago. My boots hit the dock, and I breathe in the dirty air. Fuel, salt, and fish oil.

Damn, I’m ready to be out on the water again.

“‘Ey, Nicky!”

More than a few people turn their heads before going about their business. Most of the deckies around here know my first mate, Seth Rittenburg, and anybody who’s talked to him for more than five minutes expects nothing less than a surplus of positive energy at all hours of the day.

They also know he’s the only one who can call me Nicky without getting shoved into the forty-five-degree marina basin.

Seth is already jogging down the dock when I spot him, dodging everybody else who’s still half-asleep on their feet. His bootsteps clunk on the wood—left, right, left, right. By my calculations, I have about three seconds to brace myself for impact.

Two.

One.

Seth barrels into me, engulfing me with a bear hug I feel in my bones. Through all the layers—our thermals, our sweaters, our waterproof jackets—he’s so fucking solid and warm.

For a second, I squeeze my eyes shut and breathe in the crisp, coastal winter air on his skin before I push him away and heft my duffle higher on my shoulder. If I don’t, I might hold onto him too long.

It’s already suspect enough that he’s the only person on the crew I’ve ever greeted with more than a handshake and a pat on the back. This is just Seth, though. He’s never been shy about hugging people.

That’s how I know he doesn’t mean a thing by it.

“Good to see you,” I say.

Although I don’t know where the line is between seeing him and drinking him in like the first sip of hot coffee at the start of a shift.

A light brown five o’clock shadow coats his jaw, a tease of the winter beard that’ll grow in by the end of December. His hair curls up at the ends beneath an orange wool cap, a little darker than it was when we last parted ways two months ago.

I’ve never known anyone who changes colors so drastically with the cycle of the sun. Skin tone deepening from peachy beige to golden tan as the weather warms, hair darkening from toffee to mahogany when daylight wanes.

Seth takes all the beauty of the changing seasons and personifies it. Then he takes my heart and bleeds it dry to feed the silver dollar smile that’s always plastered on his face.

He gives my shoulder a squeeze. “It’s good to see you, too.”

I shrug him off, still distinctly feeling his thumbprint on my collarbone. “Okay, okay. We need to get a move on.”

“That’s all I get?” he needles. “Come on, Nicky, admit it. You missed me.”

I don’t miss Seth.

I miss sunshine during Alaskan winters, and cozy, early nightfall during the summers. I miss chocolate malts when they run out of ice cream at Lucy’s. I miss the open ocean when I’m stuck on land.

Missing something implies you can get it back and feel whole again. When I get him back, I’m reminded of just how empty I am.

“I don’t know, you’re alright,” I say. “Think I missed Jorgensen the most.”

“Ouch.” Seth rubs his chest, smiling because he knows I’m full of shit even though he doesn’t know precisely how full of shit I am. “And to think, I brought you a gift.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Sure as hell did.”

He reaches into the front pocket of his jacket, and I’m waiting for him to pull out something Seth.

A keychain with a goofy crab pun on it—like the Legs for Days mug he got me last Christmas, with a crab leg for a handle.

Or a broken marine switch he found this morning on the control panel that I’ll have to replace before we can head out.

Instead, he holds up a pair of gloves. Very nice gloves. Like the ones I’ve picked up off the display racks at outdoor outfitters, admiring the fabric, only to hang them right back up when I notice the price tag.

“These are expensive,” I say.

“Good thing my boss pays me well.”

I can’t accept these. But I’m so irrationally worried about dropping them and kicking them into the water, I take off my worn pair and slip on the new ones. For safekeeping.

“Guess he doesn’t pay himself well, though.” Seth snatches my old gloves as soon as I stuff them in the crook of my elbow, inspecting the loose threads and friction holes in the polyester. “It’s only getting colder from here on out. Can’t drive the boat if your damn fingers fall off.”

It’s hard to argue when my fingers are instantly warmer. I flex them, curl them into fists. The fabric is more flexible, more weatherproof, and softer on the inside. But I know he paid a pretty penny to marry those three qualities.

“You should keep these for yourself. You spend more time on deck than I do.”

He laughs, chucking my old gloves into the nearest trash bin. “That’s not how gifts work, just so you know. But you’re welcome. I’m glad you like them.”

“Thank you,” I say belatedly, tailing him to the boat. Good thing his back is turned. I’m staring so intently at my gloved hands, I almost trip over a cleat. “So, how’s your family?”

It’s the same question I ask all the guys. A safe place to retreat to.

“Same old, same old. Staying busy with the lodge. I think we’re all relieved the season’s over.

Mom barely left the kitchen all summer, Dad decided to rip up the whole deck, and Audrey’s husband was gone for work.

Crabbing’s gonna feel like a fucking vacation after the last two months.

Nothing but construction projects, guest services, and babysitting my sister’s litter. ”

“I’ll remind you of that when you’ve gotta get up to pound ice after three hours of sleep.”

“I’d rather chisel ice with my teeth than watch another episode of Bubble Guppies.”

My lips twitch. “Bubble Guppies?”

Seth groans. “Be thankful you don’t know.”

We reach the slip, and Seth hops onto the gunwale of my hundred-footer, the Suoja—her namesake courtesy of my mother’s native tongue. The Refuge. The Guard. The Shield. Her only way of protecting my father, now me, and wishing us a safe voyage when we’re away from home.

I’d consider myself far less superstitious than the average mariner, but to Mom’s credit, something about her blessing takes a bit of the edge off when we’re out at sea.

“Need a hand, Cap’?” Seth extends an arm.

“I’m not that old,” I protest. A baby compared to plenty of boat captains, at thirty-four. Only two years older than Seth for that matter.

“Maybe I just wanna hold your hand, Nicky.”

His laugh sparkles in his light brown eyes and rattles right through my bones.

I step down onto the platform with a huff, thankful for all the layers of outerwear hiding the fact that my heart’s trying to beat out of my chest.

It would be a joke to him. Not unlike any of the others the guys make out here.

“Cold? I’ve got someplace warm you can put your hands.”

“Impossible to sleep with all this rocking. Wanna cuddle?”

“It’s not cheating at sea. It’s just helpin’ out a friend.”

“Any port in a storm, right?”

That’s all the thought of a man being with another man is out here. All it’s ever been. A joke.

The guys don’t mean a thing by it, and they never have. Not the ones I used to work with when I was on deck, and not the ones who work for me now.

But I’ve never been able to join in the banter for the same reason I’ve never been able to condemn it.

For me, it isn’t a joke.

I got my sea legs about the time I learned to walk, and I’ve been a fisherman ever since I was big enough to be trusted with a bait box.

Long before I understood attraction, I knew there was something fascinating about the younger guys who worked for my dad.

The effortless strength they flaunted on a daily basis, operating heavy machinery.

The big hands that flexed as they showed me how to repair engines.

The baritone voices that laughed and sang off-key and asked me if I had a crush on any girls at school.

Eventually, it clicked that other guys didn’t notice those things. Straight guys didn’t notice those things.

Just like Seth’s never noticed how it kills me whenever he hugs me hello or goodbye. Whenever he gazes at me a second too long or makes silly little jokes about wanting to hold my hand.

“Mornin’, Captain.” Jorgensen lifts his chin in greeting as he finishes lashing down a stack of crab pots.

“Morning.” I clap his forearm, double-checking his work and disguising it as a glance of approval. Konrad Jorgensen is a hard worker, a fast learner, and a great kid. But at twenty-one, he’s still just that. A kid. “Have a good break?”