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I am literally coming out of my skin withwantfor this man.
Trouble trouble trouble.
This may already be the best date I’ve ever been on. But I can’t forget that this is all so new. A day ago, Tuck was standing stone-faced in my doctor’s office. A week before that, he was cursing on the beach, clearly dismayed. Clearly closed off to any possibility of having this baby.
His about-face happened quickly. Which means a reversal can happen again at any moment. My gut is telling me to trust him. Hell, Iamtrusting him. I said so aloud. But there’s still a niggle of doubt in my brain.
I shove it aside. The evening is too beautiful—the man I’m with is too damn beautiful—for worrying about what-ifs.
“I’m ready.”
He darts outside to untie the boat. Then he slides onto the bench behind the wheel and pats the seat beside him. There’s just enough room for the two of us. I slide in next to him, our thighs brushing as he turns a key. There’s a beep, followed by the deep rumble of the engines yawning to life.
Tuck puts the boat into gear. The bench vibrates beneath my legs, the sticky-sweet smell of gasoline filling my nostrils.
One hand on the throttle, the other on the wheel, Tuck expertly drives the boat through the maze of Harbour Village’s marina. People on other boats wave to us as we pass. Tuck, of course, waves back, shouting hellos to Riley and Lu, who are stretched out on his massive boat reading books.
“Y’all enjoy the sandwiches!” Lu shouts.
I look at Tuck. “What sandwiches?”
“You’ll see,” he says with a smile.
I watch Riley pull Lu in for a kiss. “They’re so damn cute,” I say.
Tuck swivels his head to look at me. “So are you.”
“Talk about cheesy.”
“I don’t hate it.”
“Neither do I.”
Tuck drives through the marina’s narrow entrance slowly. Then we’re out in the open, passing aNo Wakebuoy that undulates on the water’s soft chop. I don’t know a ton about the geography here, but I do know this is where the Cape Fear River meets the Atlantic Ocean. I also know it’s called the graveyard of the Atlantic for a reason: hidden beneath the water are shifting sandbars that are incredibly dangerous to passing boats. Navigating this area requires in-depth knowledge and no small amount of skill.
Tuck does it beautifully. His brow is slightly furrowed as he hits the gas and we cut through the water with increasing speed. The breeze is delicious, crisp and refreshing without being cold. The ocean sighs against the hull, salty spray erupting whenever we hit a big wave.
The sliver of green that is Bald Head slowly falls away. In its place, the ocean stretches to the horizon, which is painted in broad brushstrokes of orange, amber, and flamingo pink. The sun is a blazing ball of fluorescent coral as it sinks lower in the sky.
Tuck increases our speed. Then he shifts his hands, the left on the wheel, the right on my thigh. Without thinking I drop my head onto his shoulder. Breathe in his evergreen scent. His sweater feels like butter against my cheek, no doubt because it’s made of some laughably expensive cashmere.
We go for a long ride. Tuck doesn’t say much and neither do I. The scenery is too pretty. The comfort of his touch, the bulk of his body resting against mine, is all the communication I need. The silence isn’t awkward at all, but easy. Makes me feel safe enough to let my mind wander. It’s like a breath of fresh air for my brain. When was the last time I let my thoughts just drift this way? When was the last time I let myself justsit?
The last sliver of the sun is disappearing into the ocean when Tuck asks, “Hungry?”
I nod against his shoulder. “Getting there, yeah.”
“I’ll drop anchor. There’s a great little beach, totally private, five minutes from here.”
The beach where we anchor isn’t just pretty, it’s quite possibly the most beautiful place on earth. It’s remote, Tuck telling me it’s only accessible by boat. Huge, gnarled trunks and branches of fallen trees litter the wide beach, having fossilized into driftwood long ago. Waves lap gently at the shore, reflecting the purple sky above.
Tuck anchors us about twenty feet from shore. I follow him to the back of the boat, where he has me sit on a long bench before covering my legs with a blanket. Then he opens the cooler and pulls out two foil-wrapped bundles.
He hands one to me. “I double checked to make sure grouper is okay for you to eat. It’s totally fine, according to the chart Dr. Yelich gave us.”
“The fish chart?” I blink. “But she only gave that to me.”
“I called her office and had them email me everything they gave you.” He nods at the foil in my hands. “Stede’sfamous grouper sandwich with purple slaw. Homemade potato bun.”
