Big mistake.
Huge.
Unfortunately, trying to stop kissing Hannah was a laughable endeavor.
Fox shouldn’t have come here in the first place. But he’d walked into his apartment after four nights on the water expecting her to be there, only to find a note that she’d gone to a party. His apartment had smelled like summer, a garment bag hanging on the back of the guest-room door. And he’d paced while staring at it, wondering what the hell she owned that needed a special bag.
He’d tried showering and drinking a beer but found himself out walking through town, searching for this party for which she’d obviously dressed up. Wasn’t that hard to locate a house full of outsiders in a place like this. He’d seen a dude staggering down one of the blocks and asked where he’d come from, reasoning that he would just check on Hannah, make sure she got home all right. Hadn’t he promised Brendan he’d keep an eye on her?
That little red dress, though.
He loved it—and he hated it with every fiber of his being.
Because she didn’t wear it for him. She wasn’t even kissing him for him.
Before Fox left for the trip, Hannah had mused about a way to make the director jealous. Letting the man think she and Fox were more than friends. Fox had spotted the son of a bitch the second he walked into the room, not twenty yards from where Hannah was dancing so adorably. He was watching them kiss right now. She’d obviously ignored Fox’s warning about comingling their reputations, and now . . . Damn.
He couldn’t stop for the life of him. They were already kissing, and selling his authentic enjoyment wasn’t exactly difficult. Not at all.
Jesus Christ, she tasted incredible. Fruity and feminine and grounding.
Even though he’d stepped off the Della Ray earlier, he was only now back on solid ground.
Did he push her up against the entryway too forcefully? He’d never needed to get his tongue inside a woman’s mouth so badly. He’d never been gripped by urgency or jealousy or a thousand other unnamed emotions that had him pulling down her chin with his thumb to get deeper. God. God.
She’s not temporary in any way, okay? Hands off.
Brendan’s voice in his head forced Fox’s eyes open, only to find Hannah’s shut tightly. So tightly. He traced his thumb down to her throat and felt the moan building there, would have died to taste it. He could probably keep this up—bring her home from this party and take her to bed, orgasm her into a stupor—because seducing women was an effortless skill.
Yeah, a little more of this and she’d spend the night underneath him, but did she truly want that? No. No, she had her cap set at another man. They were giving the impression that sex was definitely happening, but actually sleeping with Fox when she wanted Sergei? That wasn’t Hannah’s style. She was too loyal. Too principled. And he wouldn’t take that away from her, no matter how insane she tasted. No matter how hard she was making his cock with those committed strokes of her tongue, her hands pulling at his shirt.
Bottom line was, Brendan was right.
Hannah was the furthest thing from temporary, and Fox only did short-term. Very short-term. That personal rule kept him from getting his hopes up, from thinking he could be one half of a relationship again. Women didn’t bring Fox home to meet their parents. He was more of the side-piece type. He’d been told his whole life that he’d turn out exactly like his father, and he’d confirmed a long time ago that he shared more than a pretty face with the man. He was perfect for making Hannah’s director envious.
Yeah. A ruse was all this could be. A friend helping a friend. Unfortunately, he knew enough about women to know Hannah wasn’t faking her enjoyment. Those breathy whimpers were for his ears alone. It was on Fox to make sure they didn’t take this too far. As in, all the way back to his bed.
Despite the effort it cost him, Fox broke the kiss, pressing their foreheads together as they both struggled to catch their breath. “All right, Freckles,” he said. “I think we convinced him.”
Her eyes met his in a daze. “What? Who?”
For the first time, Fox felt his heart speed up into a sprint while off the water. Had Hannah just kissed him . . . to kiss him? Because she wanted to? He thought of the way she’d stopped dancing when he walked in, the way she’d moved in his direction as if drawn by a magnet. Had he misread everything? Was this not about making the director jealous? “Hannah, I . . . thought you were trying to show Sergei what he’s missing?”
She blinked at him several times. “Oh. Oh. Yeah, I know,” she said in a rushed whisper, shaking her head a couple of times. “I knew what you meant. S-sorry.” Why wouldn’t she look at him? “Thank you for . . . being so convincing.”
Fox couldn’t account for the ripple of pain in his stomach when she glanced sideways at Sergei to see if he’d been watching.
Oh yeah, the guy was looking, all right.
This plan was already working.
He suddenly ached to bury his fist in the wall.
When Hannah shifted, Fox realized he still had her flattened against the entryway and backed off before she felt his erection.
“How, um”—she cupped the base of her throat, as if to hide the pink skin there—“how did you know I was here?”
“I followed the trail of drunk people.” He remembered the red cup in her hand when he’d arrived and concern drew his brows together. “You’re not one of them, are you? I didn’t realize—”
“Stop, I haven’t had enough to drink that you took advantage of me, Fox. Only enough to dance to electronica.” She puffed a laugh. “Anyway, I kissed you, remember?”
“I remember, Hannah,” he assured her in a low voice, unable to keep his gaze from dropping to her swollen lips. “Do you want to stay awhile?”
She shook her head. Stopped. A smile bloomed across her face, and all he could do was watch it happen, dazed. “I did it,” she murmured. “I asked to assist with the musical score and they said yes. And I didn’t fall and nearly crack my head open this time.”
Dumb heart. Dumb, pointless heart, please stop turning over.
The problem was, Hannah was extra cute after a few drinks and happy with her good news. All Fox could think about was kissing her again, and he couldn’t. He’d done his job; now he needed to move back into friend territory fast. She seemed to have no problem putting him back there, right? He treasured this friendship, so he needed to follow suit. Pronto.
“Congratulations,” he said, returning her smile. “That’s amazing. You’re going to be great at it.”
“Yeah . . .” A little line formed between her brows. “Yeah. I will. I’ll wake up tomorrow and the songs will be back.”
Songs were the way she communicated her moods and feelings. How she interpreted everything. He’d known it last summer, and that knowledge of her had only grown over seven months of text messages. Knowing exactly what she meant made him feel . . . special. “Where did the songs go?”
“I don’t know.” Her lips twitched. “Maybe some ice cream would help?”
“We’ll have to stop on the way home. Only the vanilla side is left.”
“The not-chocolate side, you mean?” She surveyed the room. “I guess I should say good-bye. Or . . .” An odd look crossed her face. Something like reluctance, but he couldn’t be sure. “Or I could introduce you to, um . . . There were some interested parties . . .”
It took him a minute to realize what she was getting at. “You mean the girls who called dibs on me when I walked into the room?” He kissed her forehead so she wouldn’t see how much that bothered him. It shouldn’t. He’d embraced the way people saw him. “Hard pass, Freckles. Let’s go get ice cream.”
* * *
The first three times Hannah teetered in her heels, Fox started to worry that she was, in fact, shit-faced. Had she really wanted that kiss? At the very least, if he’d known she’d had a lot to drink, he wouldn’t have let it go on so long.
The clear quality of her speech put most of his fears to rest—all except the one about Hannah breaking her neck in those heels. So on their way out of the convenience store, he stepped in front of her, gesturing impatiently so she wouldn’t suspect that he wanted to carry her. “This is not the kind of ride I usually offer women.” He bent his knees a little to accommodate their height difference. “But the ice cream is going to melt if we have to take a trip to the ER, so hop on.”
He loved that she simply jumped. Not a second’s hesitation to read his intentions or tell him a piggyback ride was crazy. She just shoved the pint of chocolate ice cream under her arm and leapt, looping her free arm loosely around his neck. “You noticed my lack of high-heel game, did you? Know what’s crazy? I actually like them. Piper wouldn’t tell me how much they cost—I highly suspect because she never checked the price tag—but the astronomical price means they’re kind of like walking on cotton balls.” She yawned into his neck. “I’ve been judging her for wearing uncomfortable shoes for the sake of fashion, but they are cozy and they really do elongate the leg, Fox. I think I just need some practice.”
Okay, she wasn’t drunk, but she’d had enough alcohol to ramble, and he couldn’t stop grinning as they passed beneath a streetlight. “They look nice on you.”
“Thank you.”
What a gigantic understatement. They made her legs look delicate and strong at the same time, flexing her calves. Making him acknowledge how perfectly they would fit into the palm of his hand. Making him want to stroke the contour of them with his thumbs. Fox swallowed, tightening his grip on her bare knees. Don’t go any lower or higher, asshole. “So you got the green light to assist on the musical score. What does that mean?” His throat flexed. “Will you be spending more time with Sergei?”
If she heard the slightly strangled note in his voice, she chose to ignore it. “No. Just Brinley. You know, the leading-lady type?”
Some of the pressure crowding his chest dissipated. “I’m not on board with you calling other women that. As if you’re not in the same category.”
She dropped her chin onto his shoulder. “I felt like I was tonight. Got my big, dramatic movie kiss and everything.”
“Yeah.” His voice sounded like it was coming from the bottom of a barrel. Now that his shock from the kiss was wearing off, he could only worry about people in town finding out about it. Did you hear Fox put the moves on the younger sister? It was only a matter of time. “Was there any forward movement on the Sergei front while I was gone?” he forced out.
“Oh . . . no. No yards gained.”
The quiet disappointment in her tone had Fox turning sharply, stomping up the stairs to his apartment, the crowded sensation back in his chest, along with that foreign smack of jealousy that he really didn’t want to get used to. “That’ll teach you to outright dismiss my lip-biting and arm-squeezing advice,” he forced himself to say.
“Oh, come on, that wasn’t real, usable advice. What else you got, Peacock?”
What was he supposed to do here? Refuse to give her advice and make his pointless envy obvious? For a split second, he considered giving her terrible suggestions. Like telling her that men love to diagnose strange skin rashes. Or be the sole male attendee at drunk karaoke nights with the girls. Hannah was too smart for that, though. He’d just have to hope she ignored this advice like the last time.
Why was he hoping that again? Wasn’t he supposed to be her friend?
“Huh.” He attempted to swallow the guilt, but only about half of it went down. “Men like to feel useful. It stirs up our precious alpha male pride. Find something heavy and tell him you need it lifted. You will have emphasized your physical differences and thus, the fact that he’s a man and you’re a woman. Men need way less prompting to think of . . .”
“Sex?”
Jesus, it was like he’d eaten something spicy. He couldn’t stop clearing his throat. Or thinking of her with the director. “Right,” he practically growled.
“Note to self,” she said, pretending to write a note in the air, “find boulder. Ask for assistance. Manipulate the male psyche. By Jove, I think I’ve got it.”
Fox doubted Pencil Arms could lift a pebble, let alone a boulder, but he kept that to himself. “You’re a fast learner.”
“Thank you.” She smirked at him over his shoulder. So adorable, he couldn’t help but give her one back. “How was the fishing trip?”
He blew out a breath while retrieving the keys from his pocket, using the moonlight to decipher which was the one for his apartment. “Fine. A little strained.”
Fox probably never would have admitted that out loud if he wasn’t thrown off by his jealousy. Damn, this was not a good look for him.
It wasn’t as if he wanted Hannah to be his girlfriend, instead.
God, no. A girlfriend? Him? He doused the ridiculous flicker of hope before it could grow any larger. It was bad enough he’d allowed that kiss to go so long tonight. No way he’d drag her all the way into the mud with him.
As soon as they cleared the threshold of his apartment, Fox kicked the door closed behind them and Hannah slid off his back. He couldn’t stop himself from observing the way she tugged the skirt of her dress down. It had ridden high, torturously so, on her legs. And, God, the skin on the inside of her thighs looked smooth. Lickable.
“Why was the trip strained?” she asked, following him into the kitchen with her pint of ice cream.
Strained, indeed.
Fox shook his head while taking two spoons out of the drawer. “No reason. Forget I said anything.”
Wide-eyed and flushed, she leaned against his kitchen island. “Is it Brendan’s fault? Because I can’t talk trash about my sister’s fiancé. Unless you really want to.” A beat passed. “Okay, you convinced me. What’s his problem? He can be so mean. And, like, what is with the beanie? Is it glued on?”
A laugh snuck out before he could catch it.
How did she do this? How could she rip him free of the jaws of envy and bring him back to a place of comfort and belonging? The fact that they were in his kitchen, with no one else around, made it a lot easier to relax. It was just them. Just Hannah, now barefoot, working off the top of the ice cream, giving him her undivided attention. He wanted to sink into it, into her. He was . . . selfish when it came to Hannah. Yeah. He wanted his friend all to himself. No directors allowed.
“I guess you could say it was tense because of Brendan,” Fox said slowly, handing Hannah a spoon across the island. “But I’m equally to blame.”
“Are you guys having a fight?”
He shook his head. “Not a fight. Just a difference of opinion.” That was putting it mildly, considering he and his best friend had been like oil and water all week. Brendan continued to broach the uncomfortable subject of his intentions with Hannah, leading to Fox avoiding him, which was not easy to do in the middle of the ocean. They’d stormed off the boat in opposite directions as soon as it reached the dock in Grays. “You know Brendan is adding a second crabbing boat to the company? It’s being built in Alaska. Almost finished at this point.”
Hannah nodded around her first bite. “Piper mentioned it, yes.”
It took him a deep breath to say the next part out loud. He’d told no one. “Last summer, around the time you and Piper showed up, Brendan asked me to take over as captain of the Della Ray. So he could move to the new boat, focus on building a second crew so we can better compete during crab season.”
He waited for the congratulations. Waited for her to gasp, come around the island, and hug him. Truthfully, he wouldn’t have minded the hug.
Instead, she lowered the spoon and watched him solemnly, a wealth of thoughts dancing behind her eyes. “You don’t want to be the captain of the Della Ray?”
“Of course I don’t, Hannah.” He laughed, a buzz saw turning against the back of his neck. “It’s an honor to be asked. That boat—it’s . . . a part of the history of this town. But, Jesus, I’m not interested in that level of responsibility. I don’t want it. And he should know me well enough to realize that. You should know me well enough to realize it, too.”
Hannah blinked. “I do know you well enough, Fox. The first conversation we ever had was about you being content to take orders and walk away whistling with a paycheck.”
Why did he hate the first impression he’d given her when it was perfectly accurate? He was even perpetuating it now. Doubling down. Because it was the truth—he was content like this. Needed to be.
At eighteen, he’d had aspirations of being something other than a fisherman. He’d even formed a start-up with a college friend and fellow business major. Westport and his tomcat status were almost in the rearview when he realized he could never escape it. From thousands of miles away, his past and the expectations people had for him cast a shadow. Spoiled the business and partnership he’d tried to build. His reputation followed him, poisoning everything it touched. So, yeah, there was no sense trying to be something he wasn’t.
Men didn’t want a leader, a captain, they couldn’t respect.
“That’s right.” He turned and took a beer out of the fridge, uncapping it with his teeth. “I’m fine right where I am. Not everyone has to strive for greatness. Sometimes getting by is just as rewarding.”
“Okay.” He faced Hannah again in time to see her nod, seeming like she wanted to stay silent but was unable to do it. “Have you let yourself visualize being captain, though?”
“Visualize it?” He raised an eyebrow. “You’ve never sounded more LA.”
“If LA gets one thing right, Peacock, it’s therapy.”
“I don’t need therapy, Hannah. And I don’t need you to play the supporting actress, all right? That’s not why I told you. So you could talk me through my problems.”
She reared back, losing her grip on the spoon. It clattered onto the island, and she had to slap a hand down on it to stop the tinny noise. “You’re right,” she breathed. “That’s exactly what I’m doing. I’m sorry.”
Fox wished for quicksand to swallow him whole so he wouldn’t have to see the dazed acceptance on her face. Had he really put it there? What the hell was wrong with him? “No, I’m sorry. That was a shitty thing for me to say. I’m sorry. I’m being . . . defensive.”
Her mouth lifted at the corner, but her heart wasn’t fully in the smile. “Being defensive? You’ve never sounded more LA.”
God, he liked her.
“Look, I can’t”—there was a pulsing squeeze in the dead center of his body, demanding he give her something, a pound of flesh, in exchange for snapping—“visualize it. Okay? When I visualize myself as the captain, I see an imposter. I’m not Brendan. I don’t take everything under the goddamn sun seriously. I’m just a good time, and everyone knows it.”
He took a long sip of his beer, set it down with a clank. A few years back, Brendan had promoted him to relief skipper, and despite Fox’s reservations, he’d grudgingly taken the position, knowing he’d seldom be required to take the wheel from steady-as-hell Brendan. Ever since then, the men liked to joke that Fox didn’t mind sloppy seconds. When he took the wheel for a brief spell, they equated it to his one-night stands.
In and out. Just long enough to get your dick wet, right, man?
Fox laughed, pretended to let it roll off his back, but the comments dug under his skin, deeper each time. Especially since last summer. Now Brendan wanted him to be captain? To face even more skepticism and lack of respect? Not a fucking chance.
“Eventually he’d realize asking me was a mistake. I’m just trying to be considerate and save everyone some valuable time.”
Hannah sat silent for a moment. “This is how you feel when I say I’m not a leading lady, I guess.”
That gave him pause. The fact that she’d cast herself in some permanent benchwarmer role did drive him crazy. But no, they were coming from different places entirely. “The difference is, you want to be a leading lady. I don’t want to be the hero of the story. I’m not interested.”
She pressed her lips into a line.
Fox narrowed his eyes at her. “Are you doing that thing with your mouth because you’re trying to trap all the psychological terms you want to throw at me?”
Her expression turned miserable. “Yes.”
He forced a laugh. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Freckles, but there’s nothing here. Not everyone is fertile ground for fixing.”
She lifted her shoulders and let them drop. “Okay, I won’t try. If you tell me you don’t want to be the captain, I’ll believe you. I’ll support that.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” A few seconds slid by. “After you visualize yourself being good at captaining. Put yourself in the wheelhouse and imagine yourself enjoying it. The crew thinks of you as a good time, but there is a time for fun and a time for responsibility. They see that you recognize the difference.”
“Hannah . . .” Why was he panicking? He didn’t want to visualize himself being taken seriously as Brendan’s replacement. That would only lead to false hope. Didn’t she realize that? Besides, it wasn’t possible. Even if his imagination could conjure something so unlikely, he would never be able to realistically see himself in that leadership position. “I can’t do it,” he said, jerking a shoulder back. “I can’t see it, Hannah, and I don’t want to. All right? I appreciate you trying for me.”
After a moment, she nodded. “Okay.” A slow, playful smile. “I’m afraid our time together is up. We’ll resume this discussion during next week’s session.”
“I’m sorry there weren’t any breakthroughs.”
She took her time enjoying another bite of chocolate ice cream, his suspicions rising when her mouth took on a cocky shape around the spoon. His bottle of beer remained poised an inch from his lips as he watched Hannah swagger around the counter, neatly placing her spoon in the dishwasher. “Oh, I think I sowed a few seeds.”
And maybe she had.
Because when she looked up into his eyes, he pulled enough strength from her to visualize himself in the wheelhouse, just for the briefest moment. For the very first time since Brendan asked him to consider the job, he let himself grip the imaginary wheel, knowing he wouldn’t have to give it up the second Brendan came back from taking a leak or fixing something in the engine room. He’d have it from the time they set sail, right up until docking again. He imagined hearing his voice over the radio, movement on the deck.
Returning home having done everything right, earning the respect of the crew—that’s where he got stuck. He couldn’t see that for the life of him.
Fox banished the image as quickly as possible, clearing his throat hard. “Good night, Freckles.”
“Good night,” Hannah said warmly, going up on her toes to kiss his cheek. “What kind of music day did you have?”
He let out a breath, happy to be back on familiar ground. “Coming home after four days on the water? Mmm. Something about home.”
“‘Home.’ By Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros.”
He barely kept his hand from lifting to brush back her hair. “I don’t know that one,” he managed.
“I’ll text it to you before I go to sleep. It’s perfect.”
Fox nodded. “You?”
She waggled her eyebrows and backed away. “‘Just One Kiss’ by the Cure.”
“Cute.”
Watching her cross the apartment in her short red dress, smiling knowingly at him over her bare shoulder before disappearing into the guest room, Fox started to wonder if living with Hannah could be dangerous in more ways than one.
Put yourself in the wheelhouse and imagine yourself enjoying it. The crew thinks of you as a good time, but there is a time for fun and a time for responsibility. They see that you recognize the difference.
Hannah thought if she dug around a little, she’d find something interesting or worthwhile under his surface? She’d find his long-buried ambition?
Maybe he should show her exactly what he did best.
He could blur every thought in her beautiful head, leaving only the certainty that he lived up to the hype. That he was only good for one thing.
Fox pictured Hannah on the other side of the wall, that red dress slipping down to her ankles. How her skin would flush if he walked through the door.
Just one kiss, he’d say, exhaling against the nape of her neck. Let’s see about that.
Don’t. Don’t fuck this up.
And he would. In a heartbeat. When the truth was . . . for the first time in a long, long time, he didn’t want a girl thinking he was only good for one thing. Hannah was like a leaf blower aimed right at his undisturbed pile of possibilities, and damn, the hope felt kind of good. At the same time, he wanted them stuffed back under the tarp. Protected.
Fox took a step in the direction of her room, replaying that kiss, imagining the bump of the bed and her cries filling the apartment. It was only by the grace of God that he made it into his room without knocking on her door. But hell if he didn’t spend the whole night thinking about it.
