Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 56970 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56970 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
So yeah, imagination had its wicked way with me. Though I suppose binge watching a certain nautically themed TV show didn’t encourage restful slumber. Did pirates suffering mid-life crises actually exist on the high seas? What about the seas around Kōpuha Bay? Should I carry a knife?
Damon’s borrowed yacht greets us at the end of the pier. A pretty thing of wood and white paint with traditional red-and-white lifesaving buoys. I’m on deck for less than five minutes before Roger comes trotting down the pier towards us in a remarkably similar navy and white striped shirt. He’s at least jammed himself into jeans. Thank God, or that would’ve been awkward.
Damon watches us from his position leaning against the cockpit, one ankle hooked lazily over the other.
“Slow on the gangplank,” I say as sternly as I can muster with my knees close to buckling under me. “We have another kind of trip planned.”
Roger lands on deck, cheeks flushed, and glances questioningly at Damon.
“I take sailing very seriously, Roger. In case we get carried away”—by a big bloody wave—“we’ll head down under and leave Damon manning the helm.”
“Down under, eh?” Roger’s eyes are alight with mischief, and I suppose I should be cheering. This is . . . what I want. Isn’t it?
“Come, I’ll give you the tour. Damon, set sail. I want us at the cove in time for lunch.”
Damon salutes, gaze a saucy sparkle. “Roger that.”
I make eyes at him that Damon very well knows mean stop laughing.
His grin widens and he ducks into the cockpit. I take Roger around the boat, throwing out terms like starboard, and port side, and . . . hull.
We finish at the back, Kōpuha Bay rapidly shrinking into the distance, water waking in a line of white as we motor towards the horizon.
Roger glances at me and bites his bottom lip. He’s waiting for something. For me to say something, demand something. I wish Damon had thought to work his magic on me—a few teasing comments might’ve helped me scrape up some bossiness. My stomach knots, and I’m glad the swells lifting and dropping the boat excuse my shifting feet. Um . . .
I swallow, my eye catching on a metal pail and deck brush close behind Roger. Perhaps he’ll enjoy being made to experience real boat life?
What exactly is real boat life?
I plant my hands on my hips and look him right in the face. “Time to get things ship-shape. On your hands and knees.”
Roger shivers, eyes growing big, lips parting on a pant. He steps close and slowly drops to his knees. His gaze glides slowly down to my crotch. “I’d love to get things ship shaped.”
Gah! Um . . .
I glance hastily to the cabin; Damon is staring out at us, brow arched wildly. “What are you doing?”
I’m sweating, that’s what I’m doing—completely out of my depth in the alpha department. But, oh God, must fix this! I growl at Damon, aware of Roger watching my every move. “No questioning,” I fire back. “Or I’ll have you on your knees too.”
The cheeky bastard lowers the speed of the boat and moves towards us. The audacity!
The panic!
“Stop,” I command him. “I’ll . . . deal with you later.”
Damon pauses, considers and grins. “Yes, sir.”
I whine internally.
His grin grows like he can hear it.
I return my attention to the more pressing matter of Roger. His forehead seems to be drawing closer and closer. I push him away as gently as I can while still being insistent. “Scrub the deck.”
There’s no water or whatever’s used to clean decks, but Roger grabs the deck brush and pretends to scrub. Long sweeps up and down, slowly at first, then quickening, concentrating on the tip of the plank at the toe of my boot.
“Enough!” I yelp. “Stand.”
I need to steer this somewhere wholesome, fast. With a flash of brilliance, I boss Roger to tell me all about himself, and not leave anything out. I want details, and I want those details to last until lunch time.
Roger complies, and I listen with a commanding gaze pinned on him.
At least, it’s commanding at first. Then my gaze follows the chant of my stomach—darting all over the place. Up, down, around, sideways.
My mind spins, adding to the queasy orchestra banging about inside.
Acid lurches up my throat, and I keep my face straight, only interrupting him at a pause. “Just a sec.” I lick a finger and hold it to the air as if I’m discovering something vital about our current weather patterns that might impact our journey. “Ah, thought as much. Wait here, Roger. I need a word with my first mate.”
I stride away calmly until he turns to look out over the ocean. Then I bolt into the cockpit and claw dramatically at the chair next to Damon. “Damon,” I wheeze.