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Hudson approaches me, rubbing my arms. “No, you’re not going to be sick. Look at me.”
“I swear to god if you tell me it’s all in my head,” I start.
Hudson clarifies, “You know I would never say that, Frenchie. Listen. You’re not going to drown. I have an ice bucket right here. Why don’t you go sit down below deck, and I’ll steer us back to the dock?”
“I don’t see how that’s going to help,” I say, but I do as he says anyway. He is, after all, the only person who can get this vessel back to dry land.
&nbs
p; If he can even find it.
Okay, Adalee, I tell myself. Calm down. You’re being unfair. Hudson is a professional, and you trust him. Besides, there’s no way he did this on purpose. Accidents happen.
And as for the other thing, maybe he was just caught up in the moment. You know how intense he gets when he loves something. He’s all in. He’s one hundred percent, or he’s not into it at all. And besides, Hudson has always talked about wanting kids. He loves it when kids and families charter fishing boats together, I’ve seen the way he talks about helping kids catch their first fish. The man was built to be a dad. The man was built to be a husband.
Adalee French, the man was built to be your husband. How long are you going to deny the fact that you do want kids, too?
I love my cats, and that’s about all I can handle.
I think things over as he works on radioing other boats to help guide him back to shore.
Still, he should respect your need to think about this. It’s a huge ask. And my heart wants it too much.
Chapter 8
Hudson
Fortunately, I’m a good enough navigator, and I know how to use the radio. I manage to get us safely back to shore in a couple of hours without any harm done to the boat.
However, my relationship with Frenchie might be about to get dashed upon the rocks. First, I asked her for unprotected sex, and now she thinks I deliberately tried to keep her out here all night.
By the time I have us secured to the dock—checking and double-checking the anchors and ropes—Frenchie has all our shit packed up and the below-deck area looking spick and span.
“You don’t have to clean up. Are you…are you leaving?”
She cups my cheek, kisses me on the jaw, close to my ear, which gives me a whiff of her bed-mussed hair. If my heart wasn’t breaking because it feels like she’s leaving, I would be intoxicated by her touch, her kiss, the smell of her hair, all over again.
“French…”
“I have to go.”
“Let me drive you. It’s dark.”
“I want to run. I need to run and think.”
My anger rises in my throat. It’s too dangerous for her to be running along in the middle of the night. Or morning. I’m not sure about the time. It’s incredible how time means nothing when I’m with this woman. I’m kicking myself for somehow not double-checking the knots. If I had, we never would have floated out to sea, and we would have been able to talk things out. I would have been able to tell her the entire truth.
That I’ve been pining for her, for years. That I suddenly have the overwhelming need to lock this thing down. I want her. I’ve always wanted her, and now I’m ready.
Sure, I could have gone about it differently instead of springing it on her in that particular way. I was just so overwhelmed, so desperate for her. To be close to her in every conceivable way.
“Like hell. I’ll chase you,” I say.
She laughs. “Fine. Chase me. You’re a terrible runner, though.”
She hops off the boat and runs down the dock toward the parking lot at full speed.
“Frenchie!”
