Page 42

She's said it many times. I don't know why it hits different right now. Maybe because her voice is raw and timid and she's looking at me like I just handed her something she'd given up expecting, and the want goes through me so fast and so hard my hand tightens on the compressor.

I want to cross the floor and put my hands on her face and tip it back and kiss her until she stops looking at me like that. Until the wet in her eyes is something I put there on purpose, for a different reason entirely, and she's making the sound she made on the doorstep with her back against the frame and her hands inside my shirt.

“Get back to work, Vanessa.” My voice sounds like it’s been dragged up from the seventh circle of hell. A shiver that doesn’t look like fear goes through her. She swallows twice before whispering, “Yes, sir. Whatever you say.” My cock jumps so hard I’m terrified she’ll see my reaction, but she’s turned away already. Diesel gets up with a grunt and follows her, claws ticking on the concrete. The office door shuts behind the two of them and I stand there breathing hard, forcing my body back under control.

Then I pick up the compressor and go back to the outboard. Focusing on the one thing that always makes sense.

The yard empties and I stay. The outboard rings are in, that job’s finished. There’s no reason for me to still be here. Time to call it a day.

There's a Johnson on the trailer I've been putting off. It’s a small job, straightforward. Nothing that can't wait until morning. I pull it onto the bench anyway because going home means facing the quiet of the house and my own increasingly clamorous thoughts.

She should have left an hour ago, but the light’s still on in the office. I know she didn’t just leave it on by accident. She’s still in there. I’m tuned to her comings and goings like a motion sensor.

I don't think about why she's still here. I think about the Johnson's lower unit. I don't think about the office light or the fact that I can hear her keyboard from across the yard when the sander's off and everything else is still.

I’m so intent on not thinking about her that I know the second she stops typing. I hear the office door opening, tracking every step she takes in the direction of the workshop instead of heading to the parking lot like she should be.

Diesel comes trotting in first, tail wagging as he heralds her arrival with all the fanfare he so clearly thinks she deserves.

She sets a plate on the bench next to the lower unit. Ham and cheese sandwich. Apple. A napkin folded under it.

"You missed dinner."

"Maybe I don't eat dinner."

"You don't eat any meal voluntarily. This is my third week here, I've noticed."

There's nothing to say to that. I eat half the sandwich she must have packed for herself standing up and she takes the apple back and takes a loud bite, sitting on the stool by the door with her feet hooked on the rung.

Neither of us mentions that this is not a normal thing to be doing.

We end up on the dock. Sitting with our legs over the edge. The harbor is so quiet I can hear the lines creak on the boats three slips down. She shivers next to me. The temperature drops fast out here once the sun's behind the trees, and she's in a cotton button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled.

"You should go home."

"Probably." She doesn't move. Her legs are still dangling over the edge, bare calves above the new boots, goosebumps climbing her shins. "But I like it out here. It's so quiet."

"Sound carries on the water. Anything louder than a whisper, you can hear it three docks down."

"Good thing I'm not much of a screamer, then."

I don't think she means it the way I hear it. I hear it that way anyway and it immediately feels like a challenge.

I pull my jacket off and drop it over her shoulders. She startles, then her fingers come up and close around the collar as she tucks her chin into it, breathing in, and something happens to her face that she doesn't bother hiding.

"Thank you."

"You were shivering. It was distracting."

She laughs quietly. "Everything I do is distracting to you. The truck was distracting. My shivering is distracting. I'm starting to think distracting means something else in your language."

She's not wrong. I don't tell her that.

She's quiet for a while. The water laps at the pilings under us. Somewhere across the harbor a screen door closes, and someone calls a dog in for the night.

"Your mom told me about the storm," she says. Carefully.

"I know. I was there."