Total pages in book: 192
Estimated words: 189782 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 949(@200wpm)___ 759(@250wpm)___ 633(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 189782 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 949(@200wpm)___ 759(@250wpm)___ 633(@300wpm)
“I’ll worry no matter what.”
“I know. But it’s safer for me to stay on the yacht. I won’t be out in public or wandering around in town. I won’t step one foot off the yacht. Rhett is coming to me, and I’ll have a security guard stay behind.”
“Both guards.”
“You need one with you. If you guys run into reporters—”
“You fucking serious? You think I need someone to protect me?”
“Don’t sound so insulted. You obviously think I need two guards to protect me.”
“Because…” I put my mouth at her ear and breathe, “Spaghetti arms.”
“Fuck off.” She jabs me in the gut with a pointy elbow, making me laugh.
That fires up both her elbows, which I quickly wrestle into submission.
“Shh. I’m just teasing you.” I nuzzle her neck. “Tell me about your boss.”
“He’s the Chief of Surgery. Medical degree from Harvard. Highly intelligent. Early forties. He’s a stand-up guy, Leo. Super nice.”
“Let me guess, he also volunteers at the local orphanage and rescues kittens in his spare time?”
“Nope. That’s his fatal flaw. No spare time. He’s married to his job. Lives alone. No domestic partners or close friends.”
“Yet he’s making time to see you.”
“Only because I’m in town, and the hospital is just over the bridge.”
“Bet he’s hoping for some details about your captivity.”
“He won’t get any. Maybe someday, but not right now.”
The strange tone in her voice has me turning her in my arms.
“What did you talk about with Doyle?” I search her vibrant green eyes.
“The miscarriage.” She looks away. “Monty and his relationship with you guys. I need to work up to the rest of it.”
“He asked me if I was fucking you.”
“What?”
“Not in those words, but the question was direct and accusatory as if I’m a home-wrecker or something.”
“That’s not okay.” She mutters something under her breath, words lost to the breeze but rich with annoyance. “You need to see a different therapist. All of you. This isn’t working out with Doyle.”
“I don’t trust him. None of us do. So we’ll continue to see him until we figure out his angle.”
“I can’t stop you from doing your thing.”
“My thing?”
“You know the thing. Pounding your chest. Peeing on your territory.”
“I don’t do that.”
“Right. So while you’re not doing that with Doyle, you also need to see another therapist for real. That includes all of you.”
If a therapist is going to dig into my personal shit like all those reporters and detectives, I’ll pass on that. But I won’t have that argument with her right now.
“We’re here.” I turn her toward the cluster of buildings emerging on the horizon.
I saw Sitka when we landed last week. Kind of. It was dark when we drove from the airport to Monty’s yacht. Seeing it in the daylight, crowded with people and traffic, will be a different experience.
“There’s a cruise ship in port.” She shields her eyes against the sun. “It’s going to be busy today.”
She already warned us about that. Sitka has around eight thousand residents. A cruise ship can swell the population by another four thousand.
“Ready to see the world? Or at least, a small remote part of it?” Infectious excitement radiates from her.
“Yeah, love.” My heart races. “I wore my best beard for this.”
22
Leonid
—
Leaning against the railing with Frankie in the cage of my arms, I devour the picturesque view of Sitka, hypnotized.
Majestic mountains loom over the harbor, the peaks capped with snow even in the spring. A harp-shaped bridge spans between the islands. Quaint shops and restaurants line the waterfront, a long maritime history weathering their wooden facades.
Brightly colored buoys mark the channels as Monty steers the yacht into the marina, treating the chaotic harbor like another routine part of his day.
Frankie points out the hospital where she and her mother worked. I knew her mother passed a few years ago from cancer, but I didn’t realize she was a nurse, too.
The hospital sits on a smaller island in the distance, dwarfed by the massive white hull of the cruise ship. Watercraft of all sizes bob in the water. The strange, potent scents of saltwater, fish, and diesel burn my nose with sensory overload, but in the best possible way.
“This is a working harbor, not just a tourist attraction.” She gestures at the rows of wooden piers, each one busy with fishermen unloading their catch. “My father worked in the fishing industry, but I don’t remember him. He died of heart disease when I was young.”
She goes on to describe how she spent her youth kayaking, boating, and exploring the numerous islands. During the winter months, when other kids were sledding and cross-country skiing, she remained indoors and read cozy mysteries.
For a woman who despises the cold as much as she does, she survived the harshest Arctic conditions with barely a complaint.
She has no idea how fucking tough she is.
As the marina grows closer, so do the people. The crowds, the noise, the sheer vibrancy of it all—everything is an unfamiliar and new experience. I’ve only read about places like this, seen them in movies, but witnessing it firsthand is something else entirely.