“Dude, I’m tired. We dipped traps today, and it fucking sucked,” he whines. “Can’t we do it another night?”
I roll my eyes, even though I know how bad dipping traps is. It’s something we do yearly to get all the shit off our gear so that they aren’t covered in mud and seaweed. But it makes a day of haul even longer because it takes forever.
“It won’t take long. I have to haul tomorrow so I can’t stay late either,” I tell him. “You’ll be all right, little bitch baby. And if not, Mom can give you some warm milk and you can pretend it’s titty milk.”
“Fuck off,” he grumbles into the mic. “You’re a dick.”
“Yeah, well, wait until tonight,” I grumble back. “Six o’clock, asshole. Be there.”
“Fine,” is all Riley replies, and I hang my mic up, knowing we’re done talking now.
As I get closer to the wharf, I notice a person sitting on the porch at the Jacobs’ family house. They go to Florida every November until May, and right away, I know that must be where Stella is staying.
The question is, how crazy is she? Because she has to be somewhat crazy to be sitting outside on a snow-covered porch, in twenty-three-degree weather, in winter.
In case she’s watching, I make a point not to pay too much attention to her. A woman who looks that good? I’m sure she thinks she could put me under some sort of spell to give her what she’s here for, but she’s wrong. I don’t give a fuck how pretty she is; she’s wasting her time.
Continuing to sail past her, I pull into the wharf to sell. I’m dragging hard today, and I sure as hell am going to need an energy drink before this dinner tonight.
And maybe a few drinks to keep me from saying mean shit too.
I stand near the kitchen window, my hands still freezing from being outside just minutes ago, but I keep the binoculars against my face. My heart races in my chest, as if my body is trying to convince me that I’m doing something wrong.
The weirdest thing happened when I saw Ridge pull his boat into the wharf, and it just got more intense as I watched him and two guys on the back of his boat unload their crates—which I assumed held lobsters, but what do I know? My stomach began to feel the butterfly effect, and now … I’m biting down on my bottom lip while I take in the way he moves and the seemingly easy way he lifts things that I’m sure are insanely heavy while wearing his blue fishing gloves. The waterproof gear he’s wearing over his pants, coming up to his chest, are no doubt covered in bait, and yet … he looks stupidly attractive in them, and I absolutely don’t understand who I even am right now for thinking that.
I’ve always been into the men I meet at the gym, and yet watching him get a workout while working on his boat has memuch more excited than seeing a gym bro lift weights on a damn bench press ever could.
He lifts his arm up, using his sweatshirt to wipe his forehead, and I begin fanning myself, even though I was just outside in the arctic air.
Why is this so hot?
I think back to the way he looked at me sweetly at the supermarket, and then my mind switches to how his eyes glared into my soul when he learned my reason for being here. He looked scary angry, and yet … thinking about it now, I have to squeeze my thighs together.
When he texted me this morning, bright and early, letting me know his parents’ address and to be there at six tonight, I knew he must have gotten my number from his dad. I can’t help but think I’m walking into the lion’s den, but I can’t run and hide because this is why I’m here.
His crewmates jump off the boat onto the wharf, and soon, he’s standing behind the wheel, steering his boat toward the mooring I saw it sitting on yesterday. And if I thought him lifting heavy crates was hot, watching him climb to the bow of the boat and tie the knot? Well, that might be hotter.
And soon, he’s in his skiff, steering it toward the dock.
And with my heart racing and the area between my thighs throbbing … I set the binoculars down, and I head into the bedroom. Because I’ll be damned if I let this ache get in the way of my business pitch tonight. No, I’m going to take care of it right now.
So what if I’m about to touch myself to thoughts of the salty fisherman? I never saw a rule in the handbook saying that wasn’t allowed.
“You failed to mention the dickhead property developer was ashe,” my younger brother Riley mutters to me, “or that she’s fucking hot as hell.”
“First of all, I said asshole, not dickhead.” I shrug. “And what’s it matter if she’s got a penis or not? She thinks she can come in here, write us a check, and take our land,” I snap, keeping my voice as low as I can because we’re in the kitchen, grabbing another drink, and she’s only in the next room with my parents.
I don’t know how, but they’ve somehow managed to be nice to her through the entire dinner. Of course, so far, she really hasn’t brought up any master plans for the property, and instead, she’s just been making small talk.
It’s fucking weird.
“Yeah, but you didn’t let me know that I might want to take her back to my place after you tell her to fuck off.” He nudges me, taking a sip from his drink and stretching his neck back to look into the dining room. “She is fucking drop-dead gorgeous.”
“Thank God Mom and Dad put me in charge of most of the decisions if they die.” I look at him in disbelief. “Jesus, all she’d have to do is rub up against you, and you’d be signing our shit away.”
“Among other things,” he drawls. “Even though she was looking at you most of dinner, I’m not going to let that stop me from shooting my shot.”
My brother struts off, making his way toward the dining room—probably right to Stella.
