“What did you call me?”
Now, he was full-out laughing. “A dinghy—it’s a type of boat.”
She bit back a smile, but dragged her thumbnail against the edge of her pointer finger until she felt the centering sting of broken skin.
Lakes were murky and slimy. Then there were brain-eating amoebas and a menagerie of dead bodies lurking at the bottom.
Brinton didn’t want to admit her fear. Namely because she was afraid of everything. Once Jamie knew that, why would he take her seriously?
“I live in New York City. I don’t get out on boats much,” she said instead.
His laughter softened, and he nodded to the long paddles affixed to the boat’s sides. “This one has oars, so it’ll be a nice, easy ride. We’ll be back at the dock before you know it.”
He unwound the thick knot securing the boat to the dock. “Can you swim?”
She nodded. Swimming used to be a beloved hobby. She’d even led her team to a state championship in high school, but it had been over a year since she set foot near a pool. As her panic disorder matured, Brinton realized almost everything she once enjoyed could potentially kill her. Including boats, lakes, and swimming.
This was where Jamie wanted to talk. Her choice was made. Brinton wrung her slick palms together, which, unfortunately, he zeroed in on.
His smile faltered. “I’m not gonna let anything happen to you. I’ll help you in, paddle us out a bit, and we’ll come back. Okay?”
When he looked at her so earnestly, the screeching doubt in her mind dampened. She liked that as much as she scrutinized what it meant.
“Okay,” she answered.
Steadying herself, Brinton braced one hand on a metal ladder leading into the boat’s inner shell. The other gripped Jamie’s hand. His palm melted into hers, transferring an essential dose of assurance as she maneuvered.
Soon, they faced each other, knees touching. She tried to keep her breath steady and relax her death grip on the boat’s low railings.
“Comfortable?” he asked, as if he knew the answer.
“Yep. This is great,” she said, voice jumping an octave. Her breaths audibly zipped from her nostrils.
On the plus side, being out there—far from city lights, traffic, and interminable to-dos—was a nice change. Brinton surveyed the cloudless sky and appreciated the softly twinkling tapestry. She would have never experienced these stars back home.
Jamie slowly paddled them away from the dock. A wake of ripples trailed behind as the boat sliced through the lake’s placid surface.
Brinton traced their path. She needed the distraction from his shoulders, chest, and forearms. Planes of lean muscle lazily, teasingly stretched and swelled beneath his white T-shirt with each rotation. How might they tense and release during more vigorous cardiovascular activity?
Brinton bit her lip, cataloguing his soft intake of breath and smooth exhalation.
In and out. Over and over again.
Close enough to feel Jamie’s body heat, she’d realized how lonely she’d been. Adding further insult, he smelled so damn good. Sweet and smokey, like when they first met.
“You’re good at this,” Brinton said, snapping back into focus.
Surely, he was good at many things.
He smirked. “My dad taught me when I was a kid. Said a man should know how to steer his own boat.”
“How’s that working out for you?”
Jamie dragged his eyes to the night sky. “Some days there’s a hole in the hull—that’s the bottom of a boat, by the way—but I do all right.” He sounded skeptical, like he didn’t believe the words himself.
“How do you patch a hole in the hull?”
He laughed dryly. “I’ll let you know when I figure it out. How’s your boat?”
