Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 113051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
“Oh, no, seriously, I don’t—”
“It’s no bother, Syd. I like to cook. And you need to eat. It’s a requirement this morning.”
A few seconds pass before I dare to say, “Did anyone ever tell you that you’re bossy?”
We step out onto the stone path leading to the docks, where I walk beside him.
“Some people like that I’m bossy,” he says with a smirk.
I bet.
I follow him down the ramp, the tide high so that it’s almost level, then to his boat.
“Lord of the Rings fan, huh?” I say, gesturing to the name of the boat. Mithrandir. Gandalf’s name given to him by the elves.
“Only those worthy pick up on it,” he says, climbing on board with ease. “I assume you know it means Grey Wanderer in Sindarin. Until I found myself at Madrona, I was a wanderer myself.”
“Nerd,” I say under my breath.
He laughs and reaches down, grabbing my hand, holding tight, my skin dancing at his contact. “Just put your foot on the fender step there. That’s it. Put all your weight on it and push up.”
I push off the horizontal bumper hanging from the open gate, and he pulls me up the rest of the way until I’m on his teak deck. He leads me to the cockpit before he lets go.
“Welcome aboard my humble abode,” he says, appraising me. “You seem fairly comfortable on it already.”
“Not my first time,” I tell him. “I mean, I don’t frequent fancy sailboats like this, but my father was a fisherman.”
He gives me a polite smile. “Ah, that explains it.”
Though he must know what my father did. He’d mentioned his death before, and Michael was the one who brought up the details last night.
You must wonder why death is so fixated on you.
At that thought, I shiver.
“You alright?” Kincaid asks.
“Morning chill,” I say. From where we are in the harbor, the sun hasn’t quite reached over the tops of the forest yet.
“I’ll fix that,” he says, reaching into a rubber sleeve that contains a winch and pulling out a key. He inserts it into the wood salon-style doors. “Coffee?”
“Yes, please,” I tell him as he opens the doors and slides back a glass hatch, stepping down into the boat.
I go after him, five steps down until we’re inside. It’s nice and warm down here, with gleaming teak accents, a seat and chart table to the left, a small kitchen to the right. Down a step is the living area, couches and two chairs around a dining table, with another couch across the aisle. Beyond that, a closed door, probably the captain’s quarters.
“If you need to wash up, this is the head,” he says, gesturing to one of the three doors behind us. “It’s a motorized toilet, so you don’t have to worry about anything challenging, though if you’re used to fishing boats, then I have no doubt you can handle anything. I’ll make you coffee.”
I thank him and go inside. The space is small but manageable and clean. I use the tiny toilet, terribly self-conscious about the fact that he can hear me pee, though the whir of a Keurig machine quickly covers it up.
After I’m done, I wash my hands, admiring the soap. It’s some fancy shit with a black-and-white label, the kind you see on a lifestyle influencer’s feed. I sniff my skin. Smells like being a rich neurosurgeon.
I dry my hands on the fluffy monogrammed towel, something about it snagging my memory for a moment before it disappears. I know I shouldn’t, but I pull back the knob on the mirror to reveal a medicine cabinet underneath.
I reach in carefully and pull out a thing of oil face wash by some Korean skincare company that costs an arm and a leg at Sephora. There’s also a tub of La Mer skin cream that costs even more.
Expensive taste, I think. But we like a man who takes care of his skin.
Curious, I dip my hand over the slight ledge, and my fingers grasp something else. I bring it out and hold it in front of me.
A tube of MAC lipstick.
Oh.
Oh.
A sour taste fills my throat as I pull off the cap.
The color is bright pink, similar to the color Michelle was wearing this morning. No. That’s just a coincidence. They can’t possibly be an item. That’s not possible. I hold it up to the light coming in through the half-drawn curtains above my head and peer at it closer. The shade is a little darker, more subtle and sophisticated than Michelle’s.
But regardless of whose it is, there’s a lipstick in his medicine cabinet, and so now I’m assuming the facewash and La Mer aren’t for him in the end.
Shit. Does he have a girlfriend?
Is he married?
You haven’t even done anything, I remind myself. Just a harmless crush and sex dreams that are out of your control. But you better fucking figure it out soon.