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“What do you mean it gets gnarly? A storm?”
“It’s just an infamous passage,” he says, as if infamous is a good thing. “But this is a fair time of year to go. We’ll be fine.”
He puts the glass down and takes a few sauntering steps over to me. “At least, we’ll be fine. I’m not too sure about you.”
“What does that mean?”
“Right now you look a little ill.”
“I’m hungover.”
“Oh. I know.”
“I’m sure we’re all hungover.”
“It was a good party. I just hope you won’t be falling overboard any time soon. I don’t want to be the person to fish you out of the ocean and put you to bed, like a repeat of last night.”
“I fell in the ocean?” I ask, horrified.
You put me to bed?
The corner of his mouth ticks up. “No, but you did want to go skinny dipping really badly. I had to fight to keep my clothes on.”
“What?”
Suddenly a few images filter through my brain like dust.
Oh my god. I don’t think he’s joking. I remember my hands on his shirt, trying to undo his buttons, him laughing and prying my hands off of him.
“Shit,” I swear, pressing my hand into my forehead.
I’m blushing. Tomato Zone Three, all hands on deck.
“Hey, nothing to be embarrassed about,” he says, but there’s a mocking tone to his voice.
Oh, lord.
“I know you’ve been having a rough time,” he goes on. “That Chris guy sounded like a real wanker.”
“Oh my god, I was talking about Chris?”
“More like you were crying about Chris. Then you did some shots and passed out and I carried you to bed.”
I feel like I’m going to faint.
“Don’t worry, I was the perfect gentleman.”
“My shirt was on backwards!”
“I handed you the shirt and left the room. I don’t know what you did with it.” He walks past me to the front door, nodding his chin at the couch. “I slept there last night, and don’t worry, I’ll sleep on the couch on the boat, too. I have my manners.”
He opens the door and steps out. “You better go and start packing,” he calls out as he walks to his truck. I’m trying not to stare at his ass. “The south seas await.”
Fuck.
What the hell have I got myself into?
Six
Daisy
This was a big mistake.
I’m standing on Tai’s private dock, surrounded by Lacey, Richard, and mounds of bags, luggage, supplies and food, staring at the boat we’re supposed to do an ocean passage in, the Atarangi.
It’s small.
I know Tai said it was forty-two feet or something but for some reason it looks a lot smaller and older than I had imagined. My ex-boyfriend’s yacht had to have been at least twice the size, and new. Then again, it belonged to his money-bags father who made a fortune in Apple stock.
“How quaint,” my mother comments from behind me. “It’s…vintage.”
We have a small crowd sending us off this early morning. There’re my parents, Richard’s mom Edith (a carbon copy of him down to the glasses), and the Wakefields are here too, which surprises me considering this is something that Tai must do quite often.
“Don’t be fooled by her age,” Tai shouts at my mother from the cockpit. “She’s perfect for blue water sailing. You don’t get many ocean-worthy boats like this these days.”
Well, that’s a little reassuring.
And at least it’s a calm, clear morning, no red sky in sight (or however that sailor’s proverb goes). It’s just after dawn and the sun is slowly rising up over Tai’s place behind us, a small three-room house that he’s referred to a few times as a bach from the 50’s, whatever that means. All I know is that it’s just as retro chic as the boat, and has a stunning location on a private bay, surrounded by deep brush.
We woke up this morning when it was still dark out and I got a ride in the Wakefield’s car with Edith, while my parents took the newlyweds. I managed to get my new flight sorted out last night, with only a minor change fee.
Of course, my travel gear was never meant to go anywhere other than the trunk of a car or the belly of an airplane.
And Tai has decided this morning’s scorn isn’t devoted to the fact that there are four people’s worth of supplies to haul aboard, but is instead focused on my two shiny suitcases.
“Well, shit,” he grumbles, giving me a dirty look. “You couldn’t have given one of those suitcases to your parents to bring back for you?”
“I need my stuff!” I protest, already feeling vulnerable.
“We offered,” my father says, hands raised in a mea culpa.
It’s true. My parents offered to take the big suitcase back to the US, and I’m sure it would have been smart of me to send it off with them. But there’s stuff in there I need, like snacks I brought from home, bottles of wine, New Zealand kiwi chocolate (so good), and clothes of all sorts. I mean, who knows what kind of weather we’ll have out there.
