“I don’t know, I thought maybe Old Salt over there would be joining us or something,” I say nervously, jerking my thumb over my shoulder. “And bonus, we’d get his marina dog too, so. Win-win.”
He squints in the direction I’m pointing. “Who, Stu? He manages the place.”
I stall for a beat, shifting on my feet. “It’s just, you’re the one who said we wouldn’t be alone.” I could really use another elderly chaperone right about now.Where’s Millie when you need her?
“No, I said we wouldn’t be aloneat my place. I thought you’d be too nervous at the house, but I still wanted to go somewhere private.”
The wordprivatemakes me shiver, like a fingertip dragging down my spine. A house is safe and straightforward; I can walk out the door at any time. A boat is another type of forced proximity altogether. All my plans for self-preservation hinge upon keeping some space between us, and yet in the span of just a few hours I’ve found myself locked in a cockpit and nowclimbing aboard a floating prison with him. Voluntarily trapping myself in an enclosed space with a man I’m swimming in unresolved feelings for hardly feels like a wise choice.
He holds out his hand again, and when I hesitate, there’s a sad edge to his smile. “Is it really so scary to be alone with me?” he says softly.
The words, uttered so quietly, threaten to capsize what’s left of my composure. A tornado of emotions swirls inside me, with fear at the top of the heap. How can I tell him that by stepping on board this boat, I’m afraid I’ll find myself completely unmoored? I’ve spent so much time and energy trying to move past my feelings for Ryder—hell, it took meyearsto even think about him without my heart racing—that if I crack this door even an inch, I’m worried he’ll blow it wide open.
It’s terrifying,I answer silently as I take his hand and step aboard, letting out a shallow, shaking breath.
Ryder squeezes my hand once before releasing it, then resumes bustling around the boat, getting things ready. I don’t understand half the things he’s doing, but switches are flipped, buttons are pushed, and screens are booted up. It’s surreal to see him so at home in yet another new environment, such a far cry from a movie set.What else has changed with him?
“A lot,” he answers, and too late I realize I spoke out loud. “I grew up.”
I flush.Get it together, Scarlett. “If I’m skippering, do I at least get a cool hat?” I ask, running my palm along the gleaming wood dashboard. “You know, like the kind with braided trim, or maybe a tricorn style?”
He snorts. “Settle down, Captain Jack Sparrow. You’re askipper, not a pirate. Do me a favor and untie that line,” he says, pointing at a piling near the bow of the boat.
“Dare I ask how you managed to find a boat on such short notice?” I ask as I unknot the last rope from its post and we start drifting away from the dock. “You snap your fingers and things just appear?”
He makes a sound likepshh.“Please, I can make it rain out here.”
Not really an answer,I note as he fires up the engine, but the roar of the motors drowns out any opportunity for follow-up questions.
We set off, slowly at first as we idle through the no-wake zone, then faster once we’re farther from the dock. I grip the console as we crest some chop, the wind that’s whipping through my hair a welcome reprieve from the stagnant humidity.
I drink in our surroundings as we cruise through the inlet. Fish dart around the bow as we cut through the brackish water. Seagulls arc overhead while ospreys dive-bomb from their bulky nests built atop channel markers. Ryder draws my attention to a white egret, long legged and regal, searching for food along the muddy banks. Sanderlings peck the sand, the marsh grasses behind them swaying gently in the breeze. An older couple waves at us from a passing boat, an American flag flapping majestically from its stern.
It’s tranquil in a way I can’t describe, a serenity I haven’t felt in years. I feel fully present and at peace in a way I rarely do. I suppose it’s true what they say: There’s something healing about the ocean. I inhale, filling my lungs with the briny, salty-sweet Atlantic air, and come to a decision: Tonight, I’mgoing to relax. I’m going to cast off this suffocating suit of armor, lay down my weapons, drop my guard, and justbe. And for once, I’m not going to worry about tomorrow.
I watch Ryder out of the corner of my eye, grateful he can’t read my thoughts. It’s fascinating, seeing him come alive on the water like this. This seafaring hobby of his is something new. Back when we were together, he had no boating experience whatsoever (or at least, none that I knew of). Now, he handles the vessel with ease, like he’s been doing it all his life, like he was born on a boat deck. Any trace of the pampered, pretty-boy celebrity has given way to resourcefulness and rugged masculinity. Here, he’s a man’s man, the type of guy who could catch and cook his dinner with nothing but his bare hands and an open flame. And I’ll just come right out and say it: This version of Ryder is working for me. It’s competence porn in its purest form. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate evolved, sensitive men as much as the next girl, but there’s a reason we’re all watching that guy chop wood on TikTok.
His focus on navigation means I can stare at him undetected, and I can admit now what I haven’t wanted to: Time has done nothing to dull my attraction to Ryder. If anything, it’s amplified it. Looking at him is a pleasure. His skin is tanned, his body strong and solid, his eyes vibrant and sparkling. Whatever high-priced trainer he’s working with is well worth the money; he’s put on a solid twenty pounds of muscle since I last saw him. I can barely tear my eyes from his flexing bicep as he works the throttle, skillfully steering us through the waterway. The wind has made a mess of his movie star haircut, giving me a glimpse of the ruffled boy I once fell in love with.
When he catches me watching him, he pulls back on the throttle and the boat slows. “You want to try?” he asks, gesturing to the steering wheel.
It’s cute he thinks that’s the reason I’m staring. “Is that allowed? What if I get caught driving without a license?”
He pretends to think about it before snapping his fingers. “We can pull out our keys to the city. I’m sure it works the same as a get-out-of-jail-free card.”
I shoot him a look. “Ry, I am not going to boat jail over this.” Imagine the headlines:MARITIME MISCHIEF:Lost Letterlovebirds sail into troubled waters!
“Good news, there’s no such thing as boat jail.”Just regular jail,I hear him mumble under his breath, and I groan my disapproval. “Come on, you’ll be fine. Trust me.”
I don’t have time to consider whether I do, in fact, trust him before he grabs me by the waist and tugs me toward him, maneuvering me into the tight sliver of space between the steering wheel and captain’s chair. My back is pressed to his front, and my mind immediately flashes to all the different times we’ve been pressed against each other, all the places we’ve…well.This is a unique form of torture. My pulse starts to hammer, and I wonder if he can hear it.
From behind, he lays his hand over mine on the throttle, his strong body wrapped around me, setting off fireworks in my nervous system. He pushes upward with gentle pressure, and when the boat surges forward, my heart goes right along with it. “See? You need very little power to accelerate. Do everything gradually and use a light touch, especially when turning the wheel. It’s very sensitive and responsive to even the slightest pressure.”
Are we still talking about the boat?Is it me, or does everything he says sound sexual?I remind myself that piloting watercraft isn’t supposed to be an aphrodisiac, even if this boat does feel like one large erogenous zone.
I press upward on the throttle again and we jolt forward, catching us both off guard. He chuckles in my ear, the husky sound raising the hairs on my arm. My body’s responding like it’s been ten minutes since it last felt his touch, not ten years.
It doesn’t take me long to get the hang of it, and I love the sense of power it gives me, zooming through the waterways, speeding up and slowing down, zigging and zagging around other boats. Salt water sprays my face with every dip and swell, damp strands of hair lashing against my cheeks, and while I’m sure the combination of wind and water is wreaking havoc on my curls, it feels so refreshing that I can’t be bothered to care. We cruise this way for a while, with Ryder prodding me to go faster and me refusing to do so, not wanting to tempt the nautical fates (or be cited by the Coast Guard). Eventually I surrender the wheel back to him, content to watch him from the passenger seat in companionable silence.
