Fox settled back into his couch cushions and tipped a beer to his lips, taking a long sip to disguise the urge to laugh at the serious expression of the man sitting across from him. “What is this, Cap? An intervention?”
It wasn’t that he’d never seen Brendan looking disgruntled before. God knows he had. Fox just hadn’t seen the Della Ray’s captain anything but blissful for the last six months since meeting his fiancée, Piper. It was almost enough to make a man want to reevaluate his position on relationships.
Yeah. Right.
“No, it’s not an intervention,” Brendan said, adjusting the beanie on his head. Then taking it off altogether and resting it on his knee. “But if you keep putting off the conversation about taking over as captain, I might have to stage one.”
This marked the eighth time Brendan had asked him to step up and lead the crew. At first, he’d been nothing short of baffled. Had he given the impression he could be responsible for the lives of five men? If so, it must have been an accident. He was content to take orders, do his job well, and skedaddle with his cut of the haul, whether his earnings came from crabs in the fall or fishing the rest of the year.
Thriving under pressure was in a king crab fisherman’s blood. He’d stood beside Brendan on the Della Ray and stared death in the eye. More than once. But battling nature wasn’t the same as taking charge of a crew. Making decisions. Owning up to the mistakes he would inevitably make. That was a different kind of pressure entirely—and he wasn’t sure he was built for that. More specifically, he wasn’t sure the crew believed he was built to lead them. Speaking from a lot of experience, a fishing vessel’s team needed to have total trust in their captain. Any hesitation could cost a man his life. Those assholes barely took him seriously as a human being, let alone as the one giving orders.
Yeah. All he needed was a place to sleep and watch baseball, a couple of beers at the end of a hard day, and a willing, lush body in the dark.
Although the need for that last one hadn’t been all that pressing lately.
Hadn’t been pressing at all, really.
Fox popped his jaw and focused. “An intervention won’t be necessary.” He shrugged. “Told you, I’m honored you’d think of me, man. But I’m not interested.” He wedged the beer bottle between his thighs and reached down to stroke the braided leather wrapped around his wrist. “I’m happy to relieve you when you’re belowdecks, but I’m not looking for permanent.”
“Yeah.” Brendan eyed Fox’s barren apartment pointedly. “No kidding.”
That was fair enough. Anyone who walked into the two-bedroom overlooking Grays Harbor would assume Fox was in the process of moving in, when in reality he’d just passed his six-year anniversary in the place.
At thirty-one, he was back in Westport, with no plans to leave. Once upon a time, he’d purposely attended college in Minnesota, but that didn’t turn out so well. Served him right for thinking this place wouldn’t suck him back in. It always did eventually. Leaving the first time had cost him most of the ingenuity he possessed, and now? He channeled what was left into fishing.
And women. Or he used to, anyway.
“Have you considered asking Sanders?” Fox forced himself to stop messing with his bracelet. “He could use the extra cut with the baby on the way.”
“He belongs on deck. Your place is in the wheelhouse—that’s a gut feeling.” Brendan didn’t blink. “The second boat is almost finished. I’ll be forming a new crew, expanding. I want to leave the Della Ray in good hands. Hands I trust.”
“Jesus, you don’t let up,” Fox said on a laugh, pushing to his feet and crossing to the fridge for another beer, even though he’d only drunk half of the first. Just for something to do with his hands. “Part of me is almost enjoying this. Not every day I get to tell the captain no.”
Brendan grunted. “I’m going to wear you down, you stubborn bastard.”
Fox gave him a tight smile over his shoulder. “You won’t. And you’re one to call someone stubborn, dude who wore his wedding ring seven extra years.”
“Well,” Brendan rumbled. “I found a good reason to take it off.”
There he went, looking blissful again.
Fox chuckled, uncapped his second beer with his teeth, and spat the cap into the sink. “Speaking of your reason for ending your self-imposed celibacy, shouldn’t you be home having dinner with her?”
“She’s keeping my spaghetti warm for me.” Brendan shifted in his seat, pinned him with a laser look that was famous among the crew. It translated to Sit down and shut the hell up. “I had another reason for coming over here to talk.”
“Do you need advice on women again? Because you’re way out of my depth now. If you’re here to ask me what your fiancée wants, ask me to recite the periodic table, instead. There’s a better chance of me getting that right.”
“I don’t need advice.” Brendan looked at him hard. Closely. On the hunt for bullshit. “Hannah is coming to town.”
Fox’s throat closed up. He was halfway to sitting down when Brendan said those five words, so he twisted at the last second, staying half turned, stuffing an unnecessary pillow behind his back so he wouldn’t have to look his oldest friend in the eye. And, God, how absolutely pitiful was that? “Oh yeah? What for?”
Brendan sighed. Crossed his arms. “You know she’s still working for that production company. Somehow she convinced them Westport would be a good place to film.”
Fox’s laughter cracked in the sparse living room. “You must be thrilled.”
The captain was the unofficial mayor of Westport. He was notoriously a man of few words, but when he gave his opinion on something, everyone damn well listened. In some towns, football stars were revered. In this place, it was the fishermen—and that went double for the man behind the wheel. “I don’t care what they do as long as they stay out of my hair.”
“People from LA staying out of your hair,” Fox mused, forcing himself to delay the conversation about Hannah. Like some kind of weird, self-inflicted punishment. “How did that work out last time?”
“That’s different. It was Piper.” Well, I’ll be damned. The tips of the man’s ears were red. “Anyway, my parents will be here visiting while this whole filming business is going on. That’s why Hannah can’t use our guest room.”
He feigned annoyance. “So you offered mine.”
It was hard to tell if Brendan was buying his act. “Piper had kind of nixed the idea, but Hannah seemed interested.”
Fox’s thumbnail dug into the beer label and ripped a clean strip down the side. “Really. Hannah wants to stay here?” Why were his palms turning damp? “How long are they going to be filming? How long would she stay?”
“Two weeks or so. Figured she’d have the place to herself half the time, when we’re out on the boat.”
“Right.”
But the other half of the time, they would be there together.
How the hell was Fox supposed to feel about that?
More importantly—and this was a question he asked himself way too often—how the hell was he supposed to feel about Hannah? He’d never, not once, had a girl for a friend. Last summer, Hannah and her sister had crash-landed in Westport, two rich girls from LA who’d been stripped of their allowances by Daddy. Fox had only been trying to help Brendan nurse his crush on Piper by distracting the younger sibling with a walk to the record store.
Then they’d gone to the vinyl convention together. Spent the last six months texting each other about everything under the sun . . . and she’d had the nerve to crawl up under his skin in a way that made absolutely no sense to him.
Sex was a non-possibility between them.
That had been established early on, for a host of reasons.
Number one being that he didn’t fish local waters.
If he needed the company of a woman—and he should really get back to doing that kind of thing sometime—he went to Seattle. No chance of accidentally sleeping with someone’s sister or wife or cousin’s cousin, and he could wash his hands of the whole encounter afterward. Return to Westport with no chance of bumping into a hookup. Easy. No muss, no fuss.
The second reason he couldn’t sleep with Hannah was the very man sitting in his living room. Fox was read the riot act last summer. It was seared into his memory. Sleeping with Piper’s little sister would spell disaster, because if she got attached, Fox would undoubtedly hurt her feelings. And that would make his captain and best friend’s life hell, because the Bellinger sisters stuck together.
But Fox had a third, and most important, reason for keeping his hands off Hannah. She was his friend. She was a woman who genuinely liked him for something other than his dick. And it made him feel terrifyingly good to be around her. To talk to her.
They had fun. Made each other laugh.
The way she translated song lyrics out loud made him think. In the six months that she’d been gone, he’d noticed the sunrise more. He’d started paying attention to strangers, their actions. Listening to music. Even his job seemed to have more gravity to it. Hannah did that somehow. Made him look around and consider.
Brendan was staring at him, brows drawn. Uncomfortable.
“Of course Hannah can stay here. But are you sure it’s a good idea?” His stomach drew in on itself. “People might notice she’s staying here. With me.”
The captain hedged. “I think certain speculation might be par for the course. As long as what folks are speculating on isn’t really happening.”
“Say it plainly.” Fox made an impatient sound, growing increasingly aware of what was coming. “Tell me not to fuck her.”
The captain rubbed the center of his forehead. “Look, I hate having to say this to you more than once. Feels like overkill and . . . Jesus, your sex life is your own business, but it could be different with her staying here. Close quarters and all that.”
Fox refused to make the conversation easy for his friend. And he suspected Brendan had known that coming here. They were men who regularly took responsibility for each other’s lives. They didn’t lecture each other. It was overkill. Maybe that was why the conversation hit below the belt this time, when before it felt more like a minor slap.
When the silence extended without Fox saying anything, Brendan sighed. “She’s my future sister-in-law. She’s not temporary in any way, okay? Hands off.” He made a decisive gesture. “That’s the last time I’ll bring it up.”
“Are you sure? I can pencil you in for tomorrow—”
“Don’t be a jackass.” They both visibly shook off their irritation, adjusting shirt collars and pretending to be interested in the television. “We probably didn’t even need to have this conversation, considering she’s still got a crush on this director guy. Sergei.” Brendan tapped his knee. “Am I supposed to do something about that situation, too? Go threaten to break his jaw if he takes advantage of Hannah?”
“No. Christ, it’s not the guy’s fault she likes him.” Fox said the words in a burst to relieve the pressing weight on his chest. He’d known about this crush of Hannah’s since summer and she’d still been pining for him in February, so it had probably been stupid of him to hope the infatuation had run its course. It wasn’t his favorite subject to discuss. On account of any mention of the director making him want to kick a hole through his drywall. “You’re going to be busy with your parents while Hannah is here. I’ll keep an eye on it, if you want. This thing with the director.”
Why on God’s green earth did he offer to do that?
Not a damn clue.
But he’d be lying if Brendan’s immediate gratitude didn’t ease the sting of their prior conversation. Fox might be a manwhore, but he could be trusted to protect someone’s back. He’d made a career out of it. “Yeah?”
Fox jerked a shoulder, took a sip of his beer. “Sure. If I think something is developing there, I’ll . . .” Sabotage came to mind. “Make sure she’s safe.” He didn’t even want to explore why those words spread like warm honey on his agitated nerve endings. Protecting Hannah. What a responsibility that would be. “Not that she isn’t capable of that herself,” he added quickly.
“Right, sure,” Brendan said. Also quickly. “Even so . . .”
“Uh-huh. Watch him like a hawk.”
Brendan filled up his barrel chest and let out a gusting exhale, slapping the arm of his chair. “Well. Thank God this is over.”
Fox pointed his beer straight ahead. “Door’s that way.”
The captain grunted and took his leave. Fox didn’t even pretend to be interested in his beer after that. Instead, he got up and crossed the room, stopping in front of the cabinet he’d picked up at a rummage sale. Buying furniture went against his grain, but he’d needed somewhere to store the vinyl records he’d started collecting. He’d bought his first on their trip to Seattle. The Rolling Stones. Exile on Main St. Even Hannah had approved when he’d picked it out at the record convention.
Anyway, the damn thing had started looking lonely, just sitting there all by itself, so he’d walked over to Disc N Dat and purchased a few more. Hendrix, Bowie, the Cranberries. Classics. The stack had grown so much, it felt almost accusatory in its silence, so—after trying to talk himself out of it for a couple of weeks—he’d ordered a record player.
Fox reached back behind the cabinet where he kept the key, sliding it out of the leather pouch. He unlocked the door and looked at the vertical rainbow of albums, only hesitating for a second before pulling out Madness. Dropping the needle on “Our House.” After listening to it all the way through, he pulled out his phone and started the song again, recording an audio clip and firing it Hannah’s way.
A few minutes later, she sent him back a clip of the Golden Girls theme song.
Through music, they’d just acknowledged she’d be staying in his guest room—and this was how it had been since she left. Fox waiting for the messages to stop, holding his breath at the end of every day, only releasing it when the text came.
Swallowing, he turned and looked at the guest room. Hannah was in LA. This was a friendship based on something more . . . pure than he was accustomed to. And it was safe. Texting was safe. A way of offering more to someone without giving up everything.
Would he be able to keep that up with her living in the same apartment?
