Hannah woke up at six A.M. with mice using her brain as a trampoline.
Her hand slapped down on the side table, fingers closing around her AirPods, shoving them into her ears. Next came her phone, her thumb locating the music app and selecting Zella Day from her library, letting the notes drift through the fog and wake her up slowly. Today was Sunday. Not an ideal day for working, but it was her first day on set as slightly more than a production assistant—she was an observer now, ooh, ahh—and she needed to set the right tone. Calm but focused.
Hannah, you didn’t need to do that. In fact, I wish you hadn’t.
Fox’s reprimand from the night before came rushing back, and the mice ceased bouncing on her brain, creeping off to go hide in a hole somewhere. Oh man, she’d really yelled at those old men from the middle of the street, hadn’t she? Not a dream? Truthfully, she was fine owning that reaction. Even if she had thrown something at them, they would have deserved the resulting concussion.
They’d deserved it for treating him—anyone, really—with so little respect.
Why didn’t Fox think so?
He’d seemed fine before bed. Maybe the alcohol had amplified a situation that was really no big deal? What if fishermen simply spoke to each other that way and she’d misread the intention behind it?
But none of it sat right, so she resolved to ask Fox about it later and forced herself to focus on the upcoming day at work. She ran through the scenes in her mind, searching for inspiration to enrich the score, but an hour passed without anything feeling exactly right. Which was concerning. She’d never gone so far as to think scoring movies was her calling. That would have been putting the cart way before the horse. But she’d always been confident in her ability to pull songs from memory to perfect the mood of any situation. What if she’d been too confident?
The scent of ginger distracted Hannah from her troubling thoughts.
It wasn’t an unpleasant smell at all. Quite the opposite. It was almost . . . stimulating in its richness? And she’d smelled it in the apartment before, but never so strong. What was that?
Hannah tossed aside the covers and climbed out of bed, leaving her AirPods in on the way to the bathroom, where she brushed her teeth and used the toilet, grudgingly removing the earbuds to shower. Fox had no reason to be awake this early, so she tried to be as quiet as possible, wrapping a towel tightly around her body and tiptoeing toward the guest room.
When the door to his bedroom opened and he breezed out, mid-yawn, in nothing but black briefs, Hannah ran smack into the side of the couch, sending a jolt of pain through her hip. It sent her stumbling back a couple of feet, her ass bumping into a floor lamp. Seriously, leave it to her to find two of the only pieces of furniture in the extremely sparse apartment and hit them . . . and now she was staring. Of course she was staring. What else was she supposed to do?
Fox was coming toward her with a lopsided grin and barely any clothes.
Dimples out. Ready to film a razor commercial.
And whoa. Until that moment, she hadn’t even been aware of his tattoos.
The outline of an actual fox stretching across his right hip, a giant squid wrapped around an anchor on the left side of his rib cage, a series of different-sized stars on his pec, plus other ones she didn’t have the wherewithal to decipher because his muscles were demanding attention. Were muscles supposed to be so thick? Yes. Yes, because he hadn’t bought these in a gym. He’d come by them hauling giant steel pots out of the water, pulling in nets of fish, from balancing on a deck during rough weather.
“Whoa there, Freckles,” he said in a raspy morning voice, tipping his head toward the teetering lamp. “Still getting your sea legs?”
“Um . . .” Resolutely, she looked down at the floor. “I guess I’m more hungover than I realized. Better lay low tonight.”
The closer he came, the stronger the scent of ginger. And the harder it became not to look at Fox in all his nearly naked glory. Listen, Hannah got horny with the best of them. Once in a while, at least. Mostly when listening to Prince. But the times she’d felt slightly wanting and uncomfortable were a far cry from this cinching of muscles, this filtering of warmth to her private areas.
Guilt invaded her middle. Not quite enough to scare off her lady boner, but enough to mentally berate herself for being a bad friend. How was Hannah any better than the girls who’d called dibs on Fox at the party on Friday night?
“I, um . . .” She tipped her head down so the wet hair would curtain her face. Must resist the call of those chisel-cut hip abductors. “There’s an early call time. I need to hurry up and get down there.”
“Where are you filming today?”
Was his voice closer than before? The goose bumps racing up her skin made her wish dearly for something more substantial than a towel to cover herself. “We’re shooting on the harbor. A kissing scene, actually. The big finale. We should have the lighting we’ve been waiting for.”
“Finale?” he echoed quickly. “You just started.”
“We don’t always shoot the scenes in order. Sometimes it depends on the availability of the locations . . .” He stepped in front of Hannah, giving her no choice but to look up at the ceiling, where she pretended to search for cracks. Otherwise she wouldn’t trust herself not to stare straight into the eye of the storm.
Also known as his crotch.
“You can’t look at me, can you?” Fox said, amused. “I’m not used to having someone else in the house. You want me to put on sweatpants next time?”
Jesus, no, screamed the pervert who had rented space in her head.
“Yes, please. And I’ll . . . use my robe, too. I didn’t think you’d be awake.”
The heat of his chest warmed her exposed shoulders, and everything down there turned soft and wet. She became acutely aware of the sound of his hands settling on his hips, skin rasping on skin. His height and strength compared to her.
It was shameful to be reacting to her friend this way.
She obviously wasn’t going to sleep with him. At this juncture in her life, she wasn’t interested in casual sex. Especially with Fox. He didn’t merely eschew long-term, he was all about no term. Having her around afterward would make him uncomfortable, he’d regret getting physical, and that would ruin their friendship.
I’m just a good time, and everyone knows it.
His statement from Friday night drifted into her thoughts, and for some reason, the memory made her want to look him in the eye. He was scrutinizing her kind of expectantly, as if waiting for her to expire from arousal or attempt to climb him. Was he . . . trying to throw her off-balance for some reason? Why?
She couldn’t work through it when that smell was muddling her brain. What kind of nuclear pheromones was this guy giving off?
Very discreetly, she hoped, Hannah inhaled his scent.
“What is that?”
His brows drew together. “What is what?”
“That ginger smell. Is it like . . . lotion or aftershave or something?”
“No.” He smirked. “None of those.”
She waited for him to elaborate. He didn’t. “What is it, then?”
He very briefly touched the tip of his tongue to the corner of his lips, his blue eyes twinkling. “Massage oil.”
Of all the explanations, Hannah was not expecting that. “Massage oil.” She laughed. “Were you, like, giving yourself a massage—” Flames climbed her face. “Oh. Wow. Walked right into that. I . . . Were you . . . d-doing that this morning?” She waved her hands frantically. “Never mind. Don’t answer that.”
His grin only widened. “Yeah, I was. First time I’ve had a chance since our last fishing trip. Had to blow off some steam. Should I have asked permission first?”
“No.” Oh no. Now she was thinking about Fox asking for her permission to masturbate. It was like someone saying, “Don’t think about pink elephants.”
Except the pink elephant was Fox’s penis.
“No, of course not. This is your apartment.” And now she was reluctantly fascinated. “You use massage oil for that?”
He hummed in affirmation. “It doubles as a lubricant. You’re welcome to borrow it.” His attention dropped to the knot between her breasts, then lower, to the spot where the hem of the towel brushed her mid-thigh. “But only if you like to make yourself nice and sensitive first.” He rubbed his knuckles over the breach of his belly button, through dark-blond hair and faded ink. “Kind of like foreplay with your own fingers.”
A swallow got stuck in her throat.
A bead of sweat ran down the small of her back.
“I’ll leave it in the bathroom cabinet.” He winked at her as he backed away, eventually turning for his bedroom. “Orange bottle.”
“Oo-kay,” she said, tongue heavier than lead. “Thanks?”
Did friends share lube?
Maybe only people who were friends with this particular man?
“I’ll be working on the boat all day,” he said on his way into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him before calling through the crack, “See you down at the harbor, Freckles.”
Oh.
Great.
She walked to her room in a daze.
* * *
Fox watched the film crew move like clockwork from his vantage point on the deck of the Della Ray. Three big white trailers were parked on the road, young people with headsets and clipboards scurrying around. Others congregated around a table of food and drinks. Large fluorescent-lamp-looking things surrounded two actors—a moody, skinny guy and a redhead who went from mooning over each other to checking their phones and not speaking in between takes.
For the last hour, he’d been replenishing supplies with Sanders and repairing the hydraulic launcher. They really only needed the piece of equipment for crab season, but apparently he was making every excuse to be out on deck.
Where he had a clear view of the film set.
Hopefully after this morning, Hannah wouldn’t feel the need to defend his character anymore. She’d just disregard him with a knowing smirk, like everyone else, and he could get rid of this hope she inspired in him. He could stay where it was safe. Where his crewmates and fellow Westport residents chuckled and joked about him, but at least they weren’t questioning his legitimacy as a leader.
Surely Hannah would laugh off a guy who had a favorite brand and scent of massage oil? Even though he’d never needed the shit until recently.
Usually, if he required relief and his hand was the only option, he just worked it out with a lathered palm in the shower. Now that he was seeing his five digits exclusively, he’d sprung for something with a little pizzazz. Sue him.
Brendan would kick his ass if he knew Fox had spoken to her like that. But he’d had to weigh the threat of his best friend’s wrath against Hannah’s growing expectations of him. Because he was definitely not a fucking captain. Not someone to be trusted with a valuable boat or the lives of five men. Definitely not someone Hannah offered her mouth to in the moonlight. Or berated strangers over.
Just a good time. Nothing more, nothing less.
Sanders walked out on deck beside Fox and greeted him with a grunt. He tossed down the wrench he’d been using to repair the oil pump and swiped a hand over his wealth of carrot-colored hair. “Fuck sake, it’s hot down there. I’m thinking of installing a window in the hull. Do you think Brendan would mind?”
“If you sank the ship in hopes of a cross breeze? No, not at all,” Fox answered drily, a stillness settling over him at the sight of Hannah and Sergei discussing something over a clipboard. His fingers gripped the rope he was coiling in his hand, letting the material bite into his skin, harder and harder until Hannah finally walked away. Was the director staring after her?
Yeah. He was.
That kiss the other night had worked its magic. Good.
Maybe she’d asked him to lift a heavy piece of filming equipment. Or employed some strategic lip biting. All thanks to his urgings.
It wouldn’t be too long before they were both headed back to LA with a shiny new appreciation for each other.
Great.
Ignoring the acidic taste in his mouth, Fox went back to repairing the launcher and tried to focus. The sun beat down on the deck, unseasonably hot, until he and Sanders eventually gave up on shirts and shoes altogether.
Fox used to hate this kind of tedious work. He wanted to be out in the gale, warring with waves, battling their impact, witnessing nature at her angriest. Watching as she changed her mind in a matter of seconds. Maybe humans couldn’t change, but nature could. Nature lived to change.
Lately, he hadn’t minded the pedantic tasks as much. The repetition of bringing the Della Ray out to sea, docking it safely, and preparing it for the next run. Beneath his feet, the deck was warm, the vessel bobbing gently in the water, catching wakes from other boats taking tourists out to whale watch or on pleasure excursions. Salt flavored the air. Gulls floated on the breeze overhead.
In some other life, maybe, he would wrap his hands around the wheel of his own boat and greet nature on his own terms. Introduce himself as the one in charge, instead of the one who took orders and went home without the weight of responsibility. Growing up, occupying the wheelhouse had been the dream. A given. He’d learned to block it out, though. He’d blocked it so thoroughly, light couldn’t even seep in around the edges.
A trill of notes in Fox’s pocket had him swiping a forearm across his sweaty forehead and slipping out his cell.
Carmen.
He squinted an eye down at the name, trying to remember the face that belonged to it. No luck. Maybe the stewardess? If he answered the phone, her voice would probably jog a memory. Or he could ask for a reminder of her social media handle and figure it out that way. Most of the girls he met up with in Seattle didn’t get bent out of shape over his blurry memory, anyway. They were just as interested in low commitment as Fox.
Staring down at the phone, he let it go to voicemail without answering, knowing damn well the box was full. He hadn’t listened to the messages in months.
A minute after the phone stopped ringing, a text popped up on the screen.
Are you around tonight? —C
A vein started to throb in the middle of his forehead. Probably from the sun.
He tossed aside his phone, scrubbing at the itch on the back of his neck. He’d answer the message later. Or he wouldn’t. There was something about the steady stream of hook-up calls that almost . . . panicked him lately. Had there always been so many?
Fox made no excuses for liking sex. The buildup and release of it. That race at the end when he didn’t have to think, his body just doing the job.
Fox’s phone dinged with another text message—not totally unusual for a Sunday, since his weekends were usually reserved for women, although his phone saw the most traffic on Friday nights. Lately he’d been going so far as to throw the goddamn thing into the refrigerator so he wouldn’t have to hear or see any of the incoming messages. When was the last time he even answered one of them? Or left Westport to hook up?
You know exactly how long it has been.
After Hannah left last summer, he’d gone to Seattle. Once. Determined to rip out the twinge she’d left in his chest, the constant barrage of images of their days together.
He’d brought someone out for a drink, literally sweating over how shitty he’d felt the whole time, unable to focus on a single word she’d said or their surroundings. When the tab arrived, he’d dropped a fistful of cash on the bar, made an excuse, and bounced, the roiling in his stomach only settling when he’d pulled over to text Hannah.
Sanders cracked a can of Coke open to Fox’s right.
“You going to answer those booty calls, man?” The deckhand took a gulping pull of his drink, balancing it on the edge of the boat. “How am I supposed to live vicariously through you if you’re not even living?”
“Oh, I’m going to call them back.” Fox flashed a smile that made the throb in his head worsen. “Maybe all of them at once.”
Sanders’s guffaw ran circles around the harbor.
On cue, Fox’s phone started ringing again.
He yanked once, twice at the leather cuff around his wrist.
“Answer,” Sanders said casually, tipping his head at the device. “We’re almost done here.”
In a high-pressure job full of ball-breaking adrenaline seekers, showing weakness was a bad idea, unless he wanted even more mockery. “You just want to listen in and steal my moves.”
“You don’t need moves, pretty boy. You just show up and take your pick. Me? I’ve got a face like a fucking walrus. I need moves.” Sanders drained the rest of his soda in disgust. “I suffered through that live-action Cats movie last night trying to score points with the wife. One fart—one—and I lost all my progress.”
Fox bit back a smile. “No luck, huh?”
“Had to sleep on the couch,” grumbled the deckhand.
“Don’t take it so hard, man.” Fox shivered, despite the heat. “That movie could dry up the Pacific.”
“I don’t know, there’s just something about Judi Dench . . .” Sanders mused.
Fox’s phone beeped with another text, and he seriously considered throwing the damn thing in the ocean. He didn’t even bother checking the name this time. He wouldn’t be able to remember her face and that only made the taste in his mouth worse.
“What are you doing here? Playing hard to get?” Sanders chuckled, prodding Fox in the gut with an elbow. “That would be a first.”
“Yeah.” Fox laughed, his gaze straying back to where the movie was filming, finding Hannah in the group, surprised to find her looking back at him over her shoulder, her lip caught between her teeth. Thoughtful.
He saluted her.
She sent him back a half smile.
“Yeah . . .” Sanders was still going. “You’ve never been one to play hard to get. Remember senior year? Almost didn’t graduate because you spent so much time getting busy in the parking lot.”
Fox tore his eyes quickly off Hannah, feeling guilty for even looking at her while having this discussion. “Hey.” He shrugged. “I still think it should have earned me extra credit toward my physical education grade.”
Sanders laughed and went back to work.
So did Fox, but his movements weren’t as fluid, cranks turning on either side of his forehead. Eventually he found himself braced on the edge of the boat, seeking out Hannah once again, watching as she talked to a sharp brunette. He could tell by Hannah’s body language that something was off. Wrong.
Was that the soundtrack lady?
Had the songs come back for Hannah?
He could have asked her about it this morning instead of trying to divert her focus from his insecurities to something he was not insecure over in the slightest—sex. Too late for regrets now. Too late to worry about how his best friend would react if he knew Fox had talked to Piper’s little sister about jacking off while he was wearing nothing but briefs and a smile.
Brendan was still clearly worried that Fox would make a move on Hannah. Despite the Talk. Despite common decency and the fact that touching her would almost definitely be unforgivable. But no one expected good behavior out of him. Not Brendan, not the people in town, the crew, anyone. Sanders had just neatly reminded Fox of that. Reminded him of it so well, he felt like a shower was in order.
No one trusted him. So the hell with it. Why try in the first place? A leopard couldn’t change its spots.
A few minutes later when a visibly frustrated Hannah started speed walking to his apartment, Fox knew more than enough about women to recognize her problem. The flushed skin, the way she kept sneaking him covert looks. Lifting the hair off her neck to fan herself. She was turned on, frustrated. Horny. And that was one issue he damn well knew how to fix. What was the point of resisting?
Last night with the men outside Blow the Man Down, this morning with Sanders—hell, every day of his life—proved he couldn’t outrun the notions about him. Giving in to his attraction to Hannah would serve him twofold. He could scratch this goddamn seven-month itch and cut off her bid to discover what really made him tick. One hookup with Hannah would bring everything back to surface level, where he was comfortable.
Hannah might still want the director. But hey, Fox’s college girlfriend had used him as a hall pass—without his knowledge—for the better part of a year. No reason Hannah couldn’t use him for the same purpose, right? Just a meaningless good time.
Despite the fact that he was breathing through the hole of a straw, Fox didn’t even bother putting on his shirt before he followed Hannah to his apartment.
