Chapter Twelve

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.

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.

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?”

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.

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.

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.

God, he liked her.

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.

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.”

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.”

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.

He let out a breath, happy to be back on familiar ground. “Coming home after four days on the water? Mmm. Something about home.”

He barely kept his hand from lifting to brush back her hair. “I don’t know that one,” he managed.

Fox nodded. “You?”

She waggled her eyebrows and backed away. “‘Just One Kiss’ by the Cure.”

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.

Chapter Eight

There was no filming on Saturday and most of the cast and crew headed to Seattle to take advantage of the time off. Hannah received a text from Christian at ten in the morning that read, You coming to Seattle, yes or no?

I don’t care either way. And while it was incredibly hard to pass up such a kind and generous invitation, Hannah was anxious to get some sister time with Piper. With Brendan back on terra firma to entertain his parents, the captain very wisely handed Piper his credit card, grunted at her to be careful, kissed her like the sky was falling, and nudged a dazed Piper toward Hannah, who waited in the driveway pretending to get sick over the public display of affection.

Piper snorted. “Sometimes I swear it is, but that’s just my cue to hydrate.” Hannah fell sideways onto the seat laughing, her sister ruffling her hair with an indulgent smile. “When he’s doing it right, it never gets old.”

Piper checked her makeup in the rearview, smacked her lips together, and started the truck. “Someday you’ll have a reason to agree.”

Hannah didn’t like where her mind went—and it went there immediately.

The way Fox stared at her last night as she’d walked into her bedroom.

He must not have expected her to glance back over her shoulder or he wouldn’t have had that look in his eye. Honestly, the word “seductive”

normally sounded ridiculous to her. A word that reminded her of old Sharon Stone movie trailers. Or maybe she’d hear it once in a while flipping through cable where the coffee commercials lived.

Seductive blends. Seductive aroma.

She’d never really considered the true meaning of the word until now.

Fox was attractive. Like, insanely so. That was a given. But last night, that look in his eye had accidentally given her a peek behind the curtain, and it was like setting foot in a new country with a different currency and climate.

She would even venture to call his expression smoldering. He’d been thinking about sex—no mistaking it. And while she’d be lying to say there wasn’t always a current of physical tension running between them, she’d always assumed Fox just gave it off all by himself. It came with the territory of being in his vicinity.

Last night was different.

Last night, for that brief moment, all of that potent sexual energy had been concentrated on her, and she’d heated like an oven, the knobs on her awareness turned to the highest setting. Did he want to sleep with her? The fact that he’d given her advice on how to capture Sergei’s attention made the possibility seem remote. But the mere thought of Fox wanting her was like skydiving. A free-falling, leave-her-stomach-in-the-air event.

At UCLA, she’d dated one of her fellow music history majors, that relationship lasting just over a year. It was serious enough to introduce him to her parents and take a vacation together in Maui. But her interest in him had mainly been based on convenience, since they had classes together, and he didn’t make a fuss when Hannah retreated into her headphones. He’d just hop on the Xbox and zone out, too. After a while, the relationship turned into a competition of finding ways to ignore each other—definitely no reason to use the word “seductive.”

Even while nursing her crush on Sergei, she’d dated. An extra she’d met on set, fresh from a farm in Illinois, following his dream in Los Angeles. A stunt coordinator who spent the entire date hitting her with classic movie trivia, which she didn’t technically mind—they were social media friends now—but there’d been no viable connection.

In other words, she’d been playing in the minor leagues.

If that kiss at the party was any indication, Fox was in a major league all his own when it came to intimacy. Sure, she’d known that. In theory. He was a certified Casanova and didn’t even bother trying to deny it.

Experiencing those skills last night, putting that knowledge into practice, had been eye-opening to say the least.

She was pretty sure her brain and ovaries had briefly swapped locations during that kiss.

If he wanted to sleep with her—and come on, it was entirely possible she’d misread him—what would she do with all of that . . . seductive smolder? Why couldn’t she stop thinking about it now? How he would move. How he would groan when the relief hit. What the fronts of his muscular thighs would feel like against the backs of hers.

He would do it right.

He’d dehydrate the shit out of her.

Piper squeaked and swerved the truck, shooting Hannah a wide-eyed look. “I asked if you wanted to stop for coffee.”

Hannah shook herself, focused on counting the white lines painted in the middle of the road. Guilt settled into her stomach like sediment in a wineglass. No more thinking about Fox in those terms. Sex terms. The kiss, followed by that hungry look, had just thrown her for a loop. Now she needed to get back on track. Back to batting in the minors. Back to her harmless crush on the director. She’d probably misread Fox, anyway.

After they stopped for giant lattes smothered in caramel and whipped cream, Piper drove Hannah about forty minutes south to an outdoor shopping mall. They spent the day browsing racks but were too busy talking and catching up to buy much of anything, although Piper walked out of the lingerie store looking very superior with a little pink bag, and Hannah bought a new pair of round tortoiseshell sunglasses. They spent most of their time together lingering over lunch at a cozy French bistro, continuing to order more and more coffee so they wouldn’t get kicked out.

The sky was darkening by the time they headed back to Westport, Hannah singing along to the radio, badly, but her sister was used to it.

Piper sniffed loudly.

Why was she nervous he would turn her down? Tell her he was headed to Seattle for his usual recreational activities? What Fox did with his time was none of her business. Her fingers hovered over the screen for a few more seconds before she tapped out a text.

HANNAH (7:18 PM): Heading to Cross & Daughters with Piper if you’re interested.

A minute later, he answered.

FOX (7:19 PM): See you there, Freckles.

Hannah let out a slow breath and tipped her head back against the seat.

The speed with which her stomach calmed was alarming. But it did. Like a raging sea turning into a tranquil lake in the space of four words. What was that about? Did she simply covet the short length of time she had to spend with a friend? That was totally possible, right?

They walked into Cross and Daughters a little while later, the evening crowd only starting to trickle in. Hannah’s heart squeezed the moment she stepped over the threshold, bombarded by images of her and Piper sanding the old, neglected bar, finding that photograph of Henry behind a piece of plywood, sprinting to the door with a flaming frying pan, getting ready for the grand opening. So many memories packed into such a small space. And there was a definite satisfaction that came from looking up and knowing she was the one who hung the gold, spray-painted fishing net from the ceiling.

Piper slipped behind the bar to consult with Anita and Benny, the newly hired waitress and bartender Piper had told her about over lunch. Her sister looked so confident, pointing out things on the drink menu, answering a question about how to operate the register. A year ago, Piper had never seen

a checkbook, let alone balanced one. Now she owned and operated a successful bar.

God, Hannah was proud of her.

She turned at the sound of Fox’s deep drawl, finding him leaning back on a bar stool, one arm resting along the back of the seat, the other steadying a beer bottle in his lap. There was no help for the prickles that ran along her scalp, down her neck, and around to the front, hardening her nipples into points. It happened so fast, she didn’t have time to think of something to counter the effect, like slugs or snot or foot fungus.

Fox watched it happen knowingly, too, the blue of his eyes deepening a shade as they dipped to her breasts, the beer bottle lifting to his sculpted lips for a long, hard pull.

Get yourself together, Hannah.

This was simply the effect Fox had on women. But she didn’t have to be like everyone else and let it become A Thing. She could acknowledge his attractiveness and remain objective, right?

He nodded. “You girls brought it back to life.”

She nudged him with an elbow, sighing inwardly when his firm muscle didn’t budge in the slightest. “You helped.”

Fox nodded at Benny and ordered something vaguely German-sounding.

A moment later, Hannah was sipping on a cold pint glass full of a golden substance, an orange wedge stuck on the rim. “This is good. This is beer?”

He grinned. “Uh-oh. Someone is going to fill their yearly beer quota, too.”

Hannah paused midway through a sip. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She never got her answer, because at that same moment, Piper poked her in the shoulder, presenting Brendan’s parents with a flourish. “Hannah, this is Mr. and Mrs. Taggart. Michael and Louise, this is my sister, Hannah.”

Oh, these were Brendan’s parents, all right. No mistaking it. They were stiff shouldered and serious, not at all comfortable in the bar setting. But they were trying, even if their smiles were distracted. Without looking at Piper, Hannah could feel her sister’s nerves over having her future mother-and father-in-law in the bar, so Hannah did what she did best. She called forth her inner hype girl.

Putting on a broad smile, Hannah slipped back off the stool and leaned in to kiss the cheeks of the older couple, squeezing their hands at the same time, drawing their full attention. “It’s so lovely to meet you. Are you enjoying your time back in Westport?”

Louise’s tension unlocked slightly. “Yes, we are. Not much has changed about the town and I find that quite comforting.”

Like mother, like son, huh?

Louise chuffed a little, her cheeks tinting with pink. “Oh. Well, isn’t that sweet.”

Hannah nodded. “She even created a signature cocktail for your visit.

The . . . Taggart-tini. Right, Pipes?” Her sister stared back at her unblinking, a smile frozen on her face. “What are you waiting for? Get back there and make them one.”

Piper turned and circled around to the other side at the pace of a sloth.

Wanting to buy her sister some time to actually create the Taggart-tini, Hannah laid a hand on Fox’s arm. “You must know Fox, right? He grew up with Brendan.”

It was impossible to mistake the slight cooling in Louise’s temperature.

Very subtle, but Hannah detected it in the pinch around the corners of her mouth. “Yes, of course we do. Hello, Fox.”

Fox turned slightly and nodded at the couple. “Good to see you, Mr. and Mrs. Taggart.” His smile seemed forced. “Hope you’re having a nice visit.”

Hannah frowned inwardly at the exchange, itching to address it with Fox, but Piper chose that moment to slide two cloudy red martinis across the bar. “Here it is!” Piper sang through her teeth. “The Taggart-tini.”

Twenty minutes later, Louise had Piper’s face in her hands, her words ever-so-slightly slurred. “I have never seen my son so happy. You are an angel. An absolute angel, isn’t she, Michael? Our son smiles now! It’s almost disconcerting how often he smiles, and you—you are going to give me grandbabies, aren’t you? Oh please. You angel. My son is a lucky man.”

Piper looked over at Hannah, blinking back grateful tears.

Thank you, she mouthed.

Hannah let out a satisfied exhale and went back to her beer, which was unfortunately warm now, realizing after several moments that Fox was staring at her. “Damn, Hannah. That was nothing short of masterful.”

She gave a subtle bow. “The power of alcohol, Peacock.”

Fox chuckled. “Nothing some greasy potatoes can’t cure. The important thing is, the ice is broken.”

Don’t bring up the weird exchange between Fox and Louise. Don’t. Why do you always have to address every little thing? “Speaking of ice . . .” Nice segue, Barbara Walters. “Did I imagine a little awkwardness between you and Brendan’s mother?”

He took his time answering. “Nah, you didn’t imagine it.” His laugh crackled as he shifted in the chair. “Nothing serious. They were just protective of Brendan growing up, and I was, you know, the bad influence on her otherwise perfect kid.”

There was no bitterness in the way he said it. Just making a statement.

promiscuous before the other guys my age were ready. But I’d never put pressure on anyone else to do . . . what I did. What I do,” he amended quickly. “God, no. I’d never do that.”

It seemed like he wanted to say more. A lot more.

Hannah wanted to hear it. That explanation masked something deeper, but he was already restlessly ordering them both another beer, changing the subject to what she’d done that day. The obviously sore topic was forgotten, and soon they were laughing. Other members of the Della Ray crew steadily made their way through the door and joined the group, until they were all crowded around two stools, telling stories, Hannah getting reacquainted with the locals who’d come to mean so much to her last summer.

She didn’t have this in LA. And she’d missed it. A lot.

Back home, she went to work and went home. Every once in a while, she’d go out for a drink with her coworkers at Storm Born, but she never got this feeling. The one that said she was in the right place. That she was home and would be accepted here, no questions asked. Every time. During a particularly long-winded story from Deke, Hannah felt Fox watching her and looked back, the alcohol thrumming along in her veins, sending goose bumps riding in a slow wave up her arms and neck.

Right, it’s the alcohol.

In a daze, she watched as he wet his lower lip, rubbing the moisture together with the top one, leaving his mouth looking fresh and male. His heavy-lidded blue eyes never leaving her.

Seductive blends. Seductive aromas.

Sharon Stone.

Go home, you’re drunk.

Fox took Hannah’s wrist and raised her hand before she knew what was happening.

Hannah and Piper locked eyes through the crowd like two western gunslingers.

The bar erupted in cheers.

So much for going home.

* * *

Fox tipped back on his stool to get a better view of Hannah where she was holding court in the middle of the bar, competing against her sister in the silliest game of quarters he’d ever witnessed.

The game had one rule.

Bounce the quarter off the table. Land it in the pint glass.

But in Cross and Daughters, there was a twist. Every time a player landed a quarter in the glass, they had to tell the entire bar an embarrassing fact about themselves. The tradition started one night when a sunburned tourist decided to play quarters and was somehow convinced this rule was the norm. What started as a way to razz an out-of-towner had become standard game play.

Hannah hadn’t even flinched at the rules, just nodding as if they made perfect sense. Not for the first time, he marveled over how easily she fit into this place, like she’d always been there. She’d come here last summer and gotten a part-time job at Disc N Dat, melding seamlessly with the younger generation slowly making their mark on this old fishermen’s town. What would life here be like if the pair of Bellingers hadn’t shown up? Brendan would still be wearing his wedding ring, years passing as he turned harder, more closed off. Fox . . .

Nothing would be different on his end, he thought hastily.

He’d be exactly the same.

So, all right. Maybe he wouldn’t be standing on the edge of the crowd, with a smile on his face a mile wide, watching Hannah laugh so hard she could barely stand up. There was no helping it. She felt like the sunrise coming up over the water after a bad storm. And she was terrible at quarters. Her only saving grace was that Piper was worse.

Both of their quarter rolls had run out before getting a single one in the glass. Now they were scooping quarters off the floor into their pockets and

getting back in position, trying to compete while doubled over in laughter.

Fox wasn’t the only one held in complete thrall, either. The locals were enamored with both sisters, but he couldn’t for the life of him take his eyes off Hannah. The entire place surrounded the girls, cheering them on—and finally, finally, Hannah got a quarter in the glass, sending the customers into a frenzy.

Hannah cringed. “I failed my driver’s test because I kept changing the radio station.” She held up some fingers. “Three times.”

He set his half-empty beer down on the closest table and approached Hannah, acutely aware of everyone within earshot, including Piper and Brendan. They were already wary of Hannah staying in his spare room.

Every word out of his mouth, every action was being scrutinized to gauge his interest and intentions. The last thing Fox wanted was another “talk”

from Brendan. He’d had enough of those on the boat.

So he tried to sound as casual as possible when he stopped in front of Hannah, ducking down a little to her level until their eyes met. “Hey, I’m heading home if you want to walk with me.” Briefly, he met Brendan’s eyes. “Or stay and get a ride. It’s up to you.”

Without a doubt, if she went with option number two, Fox knew he’d sit in his room and wait until she was safely inside.

Right.

It was easy to see what his friend was trying to communicate to him.

Walking out of the bar with Hannah would send the wrong signal. A bad one. Get everyone’s tongues wagging and ultimately make her look bad.

God, that was the last thing he wanted. He needed to be more careful. As of now, they’d kept her temporary stay in his guest room pretty quiet, but leaving the bar together on a Saturday night would whip up any speculation that might already be brewing.

Without a word, Hannah linked their arms together, laying her head against Fox’s shoulder, the show of trust cementing right over the hole in his belly.

She gasped. “What do you mean? I won!”

Her laughter rang down the misty street. “What is the advantage of winning when you have to tell people something embarrassing about yourself? It’s backward.”

She sighed, rubbed her cheek against his arm. “On nights like this, I think I could live here.”

Fox’s heart lurched so hard he had to wait a moment to speak. “Oh yeah?”

Well, that’s that. Right?

How the hell would he handle it if Hannah moved here, anyway? He’d see her constantly. Every Saturday night would be like this. Pretending to her and everyone watching that he didn’t want to take her home. Really take her home. And once that happened, well. He’d be screwed. He’d have broken his own rule about not hooking up in Westport, fucked his relationship with Brendan, and potentially hurt Hannah’s feelings. It was best for everyone if she stayed in LA.

But tell that to the disappointment so heavy that it almost dragged him down to the cobblestones.

They turned right on Westhaven and crossed the street, walking along the water without verbally agreeing to it. “Do you love the ocean as much as Brendan does?”

There she went, asking him questions that made him think. Questions that wouldn’t allow him to skate by with a quip—and he didn’t really like doing that with Hannah, anyway. He liked talking to her. Loved it, actually, even when it was hard. “I think we love it in different ways. He loves the tradition and structure of fishing. I love how wild nature can get. How it can be more than one thing. How it evolves. One year, the crabs are in one place, the next they’re in another. No one can . . . define the ocean. It defines itself.”

Hannah must have been holding her breath, because she blew it out in a rush. “Wow.” She looked out over the water. “That’s lovely.”

He tried to ignore the satisfaction of being acknowledged and understood because of something that came out of his mouth. It wasn’t often that happened to him. But he couldn’t shrug it off, so he just let it settle in.

He couldn’t tell if she was joking or not.

She better be joking.

He looked down into her face and finally, thank God, was positive she was joking. And goddamn. In the moonlight, her amused features, her shining eyes . . . they were a masterpiece. His body thought so, too. It liked her mouth most of all, how she moistened the lush pillows of her lips, as if

preparing for a kiss. Who wouldn’t kiss this beautiful girl, so full of life, in the moonlight?

Fox lowered his head slightly. “Hannah . . .”

Laughter broke out, and Fox knew, before turning to look, that it would be the old-man regulars from Blow the Man Down, smoking outside in their usual spot. The same men he’d made jokes to hundreds of times about his exploits in Seattle. Because it was easier to give them what they wanted.

Laugh with them, instead of being laughed at. Make the joke, instead of being the joke. And above all else, don’t let them see how much it all bothered him.

Hannah blinked several times and stepped back from him, as if becoming aware of her surroundings and what had almost happened between them. They’d almost kissed. Or did he imagine that? It was hard to think with the warning signal going off in his head. Jesus, he didn’t want Hannah to hear the kind of garbage that came out of these men’s mouths.

Hannah skidded to a stop beside Fox, yanking her arm free.

Before he could get ahold of her again, she’d marched halfway across the street.

Fox, who’d been standing behind her completely dumbfounded, caught between awe and self-disgust, forced his throat to start working. “What are you doing?”

And he didn’t want the breathless warmth winging its way into his chest.

Would never be ready for the . . . dangerous hope that started to rise to the surface. Hope that if this girl believed he was worth a damn—enough to defend him in the street like this—maybe he was worth the effort?

No. Been there, done that whole dance with optimism. Wanted no part of it.

Right?

He really didn’t enjoy the flash of hurt in her eyes. “They were way out of line.”

The last seven months were nothing but an anomaly.

Even if his celibacy, even if the constant of Hannah’s friendship, had made him feel better about himself than he had in years.

They walked into the apartment, and Fox turned on the one and only lamp.

He wanted to shut himself in his bedroom, before the shame of Hannah witnessing that ridicule on the walk home seeped out through his pores and turned visible, but he couldn’t let her hurt expression be the last thing he saw that night. So Fox did what he did best and made light of it. “Have to admit, I’m pretty impressed by your creative use of the term ‘ball sac.’ Ten out of ten.”

Her lips crept up into a smile on one end. “Are we okay?” She wet her lips. “Are you?”

After a moment, she nodded. And that’s where he left her, staring after him thoughtfully, halfway between the kitchen and the front door.

As soon as Fox was alone in his bedroom, he dropped his forehead to the cool door, barely resisting the urge to bash his head against it.

Obviously he hadn’t fooled Hannah into thinking he didn’t give a shit about anything. That life was just a series of pleasures and amusements for him.

This girl, she saw through it. Worse, she wanted to reach him. But he couldn’t let that happen.

And he knew exactly how to prevent her from looking too deeply.

Chapter Nine

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.

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?

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.”

Also known as his crotch.

Jesus, no, screamed the pervert who had rented space in her head.

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.

His brows drew together. “What is what?”

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?”

Except the pink elephant was Fox’s penis.

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.

Did friends share lube?

Maybe only people who were friends with this particular man?

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?”

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.

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.

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.”

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?”

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.

He saluted her.

She sent him back a half smile.

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.

Chapter Ten

There was no formal plan in regard to how she would be observing Brinley. That meant it was up to Hannah to create her own opportunities, in between wrangling actors, instructing the extras, and making sure lunch deliveries were going to arrive exactly right. Pickles on this one, no pickles on the other. Why was it always pickles? It was right there in the name—

they can be picked off.

Christian was extra grouchy this morning thanks to his boyfriend’s visit to Westport getting delayed, and the mood appeared to be contagious. It was clear from the dark circles under everyone’s eyes that most of the crew had overindulged on Saturday night, and of course, a seagull shat on Maxine’s head, delaying production by an hour while it was cleaned out, the actress restyled.

Hannah decided to use the lost hour to her advantage.

The moment there was a lull in her responsibilities, Hannah approached the music coordinator where she sat in a chair beside Sergei’s vacant one.

A cool once-over. “Oh, hey.” She scanned the notes in her lap. “Hannah, right?”

For no other reason than the boat was visible right over Brinley’s shoulder, Hannah’s gaze strayed to the Della Ray, where it sat docked in the harbor. It was not the first time she’d looked since arriving on set. In fact, everyone and their mother was staring at Fox and his godlike body glistening in the sunshine. His physique was the only thing saving the cranky cast and crew from turning to cannibalism this fine Sunday morning.

Moreover, he didn’t seem aware of the distraction he created, just casually sucking up everyone’s already limited concentration.

Even Brinley lowered her sunglasses and threw a glance or two toward the boat before refocusing on Hannah . . . who was definitely not thinking about the fact that she’d been in the same apartment while Fox cleared his pipes.

First time I’ve had a chance since our last fishing trip.

Had to blow off some steam.

What did that mean exactly? Obviously that he was . . . jonesing for release. Was it a hardship for Fox to last four or five days without pleasure?

Did he, like, light candles, get completely naked, and stroke himself really slowly, adding more oil as he went along? Biting his lip? Teasing himself?

Just making a meal out of the whole affair?

Now, that was a disruptive piece of imagery.

Hannah could go months before it dawned on her that, hey! She had a vagina with a whole bunch of complicated nerve endings and she really ought to explore it more often.

Well, she could really go for exploring it right about now.

She’d worn a loose tunic dress and cardigan, though the latter had been discarded thanks to the heat. Sensibly dressed, yet at the moment, she felt almost naked. Fire tickled the back of her neck, her nipples chafing uncomfortably in her bra. Her thoughts refused to stay organized.

And her roommate parading around in all his tattooed seducer-of-women glory wasn’t helping. That orange bottle of massage oil was calling her name. At this point, she might rip off the cap with her teeth to get it open.

But first. Work.

This chance with Brinley was months, if not years, in the making, and Hannah couldn’t just blow an opportunity this huge because her body was misbehaving—and it was. So misbehaving. She wasn’t supposed to lust after her friend. The only thing keeping Hannah from all-out guilt was the strange intuition that he’d done this to her on purpose.

Realizing she’d allowed the silence to stretch too long, Hannah cleared her throat and determinedly tore her attention off the muscle-strapped fisherman. “Um . . .” She angled her body toward the set where Christian and Maxine would have their big kiss, the water stretching out behind them,

a couple of anchored vessels outlined in the horizon. “I was wondering if you could share your plans for the scene?”

Did she agree, though? Contrast was interesting. There was definitely something to be said for bringing a modern spin to period dramas with the music. Putting hip-hop to ballet. Playing opera during a murder scene. An oddity like that could make a moment stand out. Could ramp up the drama.

Familiar music could help an audience relate to something unfamiliar. And in this case, Sergei’s art house viewership would appreciate a kiss set to industrial, because God forbid it was too romantic.

What music would she use in this scene, instead?

Her mind drew a big old blank.

As if sensing a moment of weakness, Brinley turned to her with an expectant smile. “What do you think?”

Mentally, Hannah browsed her album collection back home in Bel-Air, but she couldn’t see a single cover, couldn’t read any of the names. What was wrong with her? “Well . . .” she started, searching her mind for something useful to say. Anything that would make her worthy of this chance. “I’ve been reading about this technique. Giving the actors small earpieces and playing the music while rolling so they can emote at the appropriate times. Essentially act in tandem with the music—”

After a moment, Hannah nodded, pretending to be absorbed by her clipboard so no one would see her red face. Why would she suggest a new technique with her first breath? Before they’d even built a rapport? She should have just agreed with Brinley’s choice and waited for a better chance to give input. Once she’d proven herself as helpful. Instead, she’d

established herself as an upstart who thought she knew better than the veteran.

Sergei trundled down from one of the trailers, smiling broadly at Hannah. “Hey there.” Reaching their twosome, he put a brief hand on Hannah’s shoulder, squeezing, before letting it drop away. And whoa.

What? He’d definitely never done anything like that before. Not unless she was bleeding from a head wound. Actually, if she wasn’t mistaken, he was giving her sidelong glances while conferring with Brinley about the scene structure.

Hannah really should have been listening. Observing. As she’d asked to do.

But that was a difficult feat when something very important was occurring to her. The director’s hand on her shoulder had elicited not a single tingle. There was far less gravitational pull in Sergei’s direction than there had been on Friday. Normally, standing this close to him would have made her pulse tick along a little faster. At the very least she would be hoping she didn’t have coffee breath.

Right now, all she wanted to do was be alone.

With that stupid orange bottle. Why couldn’t she stop thinking about it?

Against her will, Hannah’s attention strayed to the Della Ray where Fox was lifting a metal trap with very little effort, his trapezius muscles flexing, along with a lot of other ones she couldn’t name. Once it had been secured, he scrubbed a forearm over his dark-blond hair, leaving it haphazard and sweaty. Suddenly it was becoming difficult to swallow. Very difficult.

She hated herself a little bit in that moment. Was she this easy to distract? The man standing not a foot away was a visionary director. A genius. He treated her with respect, and he was exceptionally good-looking, in a tortured artist kind of way. Sergei was her type. She’d never been one to get distracted by the hot guy passing through. Ever.

Yet she’d never been more turned on in her life, and it had everything to do with the man who was lending her his guest room. She just needed to handle it. Purge the desire. She hadn’t appreciated herself in a really long time, and she’d been overstimulated this morning. Once she got control of her hormones, appeased them, she could focus on this potential new facet of her job. Maybe even decide if she truly wanted to make it a career. She

could also go back to having an appropriate interest in Sergei. This long-standing crush who was finally starting to show interest in her.

Yes. That was the plan.

Thank God.

Hannah made it a few steps before Sergei caught up with her. “Hey.

Hannah.”

Oh no. Her body was already doing that hot-anticipation thing it did when she decided the mood was right. Wheels were in motion. Could Sergei tell just by looking at her? That she had plans that included gingery massage oil?

He traced the path of his goatee where it ran around his mouth, frankly looking kind of . . . shy? “Where are you running off to?”

Oh, nowhere. Just have a quick errand to run in Orgasm Village.

Why wasn’t she exploding over that compliment?

A few weeks ago, at the mere suggestion from Sergei that he found her attractive, she would have found a private place to blast “For Once in My Life” by Stevie Wonder and dance (terribly) in place. Now all she could do was search for an excuse to get away. This was when she needed to reach out and brush her fingers against his arm. Locate his bicep and test for firmness, like an avocado at the farmer’s market. Or remind him of their physical differences, as Fox had suggested. You man, me woman. Science says we should do it! But she didn’t have the slightest desire to flirt or try to snag his interest.

What is happening to me?

Again, nothing. Not a spark of joy to be had.

No, she did like Sergei. The sparks would return. She just needed to eradicate this . . . temporary physical spell she was under. “No, that’s okay.”

She waved him off. “Go eat your sprouts and hummus on wheat. I’ll be back before you know it.”

He nodded, looking disappointed, and she didn’t even have the room to feel bad. There was only the selfish hunger that raked invisible hands down the front of her body, teasing erogenous zones wherever they touched.

Orange bottle. Orange bottle.

Hannah already had the key out by the time she got to Fox’s building, and she slid it into the lock now, entering the dark, empty apartment and closing the door behind her. She was panting. Panting. It was ridiculous!

But she beelined for the bathroom anyway, snatching the almighty bottle off the bathroom shelf and carrying it to the guest room like a running back protecting a football.

Easier said than done, though.

Her hands were almost too unsteady to remove the bottle cap. Especially when she thought of the way Fox uncapped beer with his teeth. Why was that so stupidly hot? His dentist must be appalled.

Finally, Hannah got the top off the bottle, and the aroma filled the air, sensual and rich and heavy with sex. No wonder she’d been so determined to figure out the source. She wedged the container between her knees and stripped the dress off over her head, letting it drift to the ground—

The apartment door opened and closed.

What the . . . ? she mouthed.

Like the immediate other side. It sounded like he was speaking right against the wood. Don’t think of wood. “Are you okay in there? Looked like something was wrong.”

Too much silence passed.

Then: “I can smell the oil, Hannah.”

Fire blazed up her neck and cheeks. “Oh my God,” she said, dropping her forehead to the door again. “This is so embarrassing.”

His low laugh made the tiny hairs on the nape of her neck stand up. “If you’re done berating yourself for having natural impulses, you can open the door.”

A slow exhale. “Hannah.”

That was all he said.

What did he mean by that?

Hannah.

Narrowing her eyes, she tried to read between the lines, and meanwhile, none of the heat tickling her belly had dissipated. In fact, God help her, standing in her bra and thong with Fox right on the other side of the door was exciting her more.

And it shouldn’t be.

For a lot of reasons.

One, he was unavailable. I’m not in the relationship race and I never will be. After he’d made that statement, he’d backed it up by trying to help her win another man. Never mind that she’d kissed him at that party because she couldn’t seem to help it. She’d wanted to. Nothing to do with Sergei at all. But he’d made it clear he’d just been helping her out.

Right?

Another reason she shouldn’t be considering throwing open the guest-room door? They were friends. She liked him. A lot. If she let him in and something happened, things would get awkward. Fox would probably regret hooking up with a houseguest immediately, because there would be no easy exit.

That brought her to the third reason she absolutely should not open the door.

The gut feeling that Fox had intentionally tried to put her off-balance this morning with his innate sexuality. That he’d wielded it like a weapon for some purpose she wasn’t fully grasping.

So there she was, armed with her three reasons and gingery lube, when the knob of the bedroom turned, an inch of space appearing between the door and the jamb. And then another. Another. Until she was stepping back

to allow it to swing open completely, her tummy muscles seizing at the sight of Fox outlined in the entrance to her room. Shirtless, filthy, rugged, and sweaty.

Uh-oh.

His gaze traveled down to the black triangle of her thong, a muscle popping in his jaw. “Don’t move.”

Frozen in place, she watched through the doorway as Fox crossed to the kitchen sink and washed his hands, drying them on a rag and tossing it away. And then he was prowling back in her direction through the unlit apartment, entering the room once more, and closing the door behind him.

The rasped order almost made her moan. Did Fox washing his hands mean what she thought it did? That he was planning on . . . touching her? It was such a practical action. Like he was getting down to business. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

She made an unintelligible noise that might have passed for a yes. Were they really discussing this out loud? Was this actually happening?

What?

With an effort, Hannah tried to make sense of that. Not just the words coming out of his mouth, but the rebellion they provoked inside her. Think.

Not so easy when slowly, so slowly, he crowded her closer to the door, and there . . . his erection met her bottom, his hips rolling as if he was doling out a treat. “Do you want my fingers between your legs?”

Yes.

Honestly, she almost screamed it.

There was something wrong with this picture, though. If her libido would stop wailing like a baby for a second, she’d be able to piece it together. “Fox . . .”

Friends.

That word got through to her.

And then: This is what I do. A brag . . . but not. Because there was an edge just under the surface of his tone that didn’t belong in a scenario like this. All day long, there had been a nettle under her skin regarding his behavior that morning, and now she understood what was happening. The why was still a mystery, but at least she had a starting point. “Fox, no.”

His hands stilled immediately, lifted, and laid flat on the door. “No?”

It was painfully obvious he’d never heard that word before. Not from a woman. Hannah couldn’t blame a single one of them, either. There was something about the way he spoke so frankly, touched with an aim toward arousing, moved so fluidly, that made inhibitions and insecurities seem irrelevant. They were only two people scratching an itch, and there was nothing wrong with that, right? He was a walking invitation to let loose.

But she wasn’t falling for it.

Hannah didn’t have a game plan. Couldn’t formulate one when her brain and her vagina were at total odds. So she spoke honestly, without second-guessing herself.

His hands curled into fists on the door, a humorless laugh pushing the hair at her temple around. “What are you worried about, Hannah? Making things weird between us? It won’t. You know what is weird? The fact that I haven’t fucked you. It’s as easy as breathing for me.”

As soon as she said it, the belief turned solid as concrete.

That was the edge she heard in his voice. That was why he’d seemed to almost be performing this morning. Acting. Overcompensating.

A pause ensued. “What?”

Stop trying to push that garbage on me. You did it this morning and you’re doing it now.”

His straight line of white teeth flashed in the darkness as he puffed a laugh. “Jesus, Hannah. Here we go with the psychology bullshit.”

All at once, his demeanor turned casually seductive. He dropped his mouth down, leaving it a millimeter away from hers. “You know,” he rasped, his lips ghosting over hers. “I could talk you into it.”

Okay, she really shouldn’t have said that.

His ensuing smirk spelled disaster.

God, that was such a cocky—and annoyingly true—statement. The line should have irked her. Not pushed her back toward that pinnacle of need, right where she’d been before she’d glimpsed the potential demons inside this man.

Her breath accelerated, heat licking at her buzzing nerve endings. She’d already admitted to Fox that he’d been the one to turn her on. But she needed to check the boxes of her own desire here. It couldn’t be him that did it for her.

There was no denying that she wanted to share something with him, however. She’d called him out on using sex as a weapon, called his bluff on intimacy being so easy for him. His wall had come down briefly, unnerving

him, and now Hannah wanted to be vulnerable in front of him. To give Fox a piece of herself in return.

An apology, maybe. Or an invitation to watch her be defenseless, as she’d seen him a few moments ago.

Exposure for exposure.

Hannah dropped the oil.

And he chuckled knowingly.

The sound cut off quickly when she slipped her fingers down the front of her panties, slowly parting her wet folds with her middle finger. Fox’s innate sexuality allowed Hannah to keep eye contact while doing something so intimate. Something so out of character. Touching herself in front of a man, being the star of the show. She was stepping way outside her comfort zone to try to let him in.

The pad of her finger rode over her clit, nearly buckling her knees.

She made a sound, half moan, half stuttered breath.

Having this man standing so close, exuding bucketloads of masculinity, smelling of sweat and massage oil, was going to end this pretty fast. “Let me take over.”

All she could do was shake her head, a tightening sensation already beginning to occur deep in her core, some unreached place that she must only be tapping now. She would have remembered feeling this way before.

This out of control and focused at the same time. Stroking herself to climax in front of this man was the ultimate rush, and yet, there was so much more happening. Communication passing between them that was way more important than physical relief.

Fox, obviously not giving up on throwing her off course, ran his nose up the slope of her neck, humming in her ear. “I was trying to keep this innocent, but maybe you’re holding out for a better offer from me?” His breath filled her ear. “You want me to spread you out on the bed and use my tongue on that pussy, Hannah? Say the word and I’ll do the rest. All you have to do is slide your fingers into my hair and hold on.”

With that, Hannah lost the ability to breathe, her fingers moving faster on the sensitive pearl of flesh. It swelled along with the pressure inside her, and Fox’s body heat, his scent, the way he watched her with salacious

intention, his own breath turning shallow, made every inch of her more sensitive. Her hair follicles seemed to reach out to him, receiving an electrical charge in response, and she trembled, thighs squeezing tight around her hand. “You’re enough when you’re not touching me,” she whispered, not even sure she said it out loud until Fox’s expression went from lusting to dumbstruck, his chest starting to heave. “You’re enough on your own.”

She watched his face, watched the confusion give way to hunger and swing back again. “Hannah,” he said raggedly, dropping his hands to rake them up and down her hips, twisting his fingers in the sides of her panties.

It was like he couldn’t fathom a woman wanting nothing but his presence.

As if her turning him down only meant she wanted a different act.

A different favor from him.

Hannah didn’t think there was a single thing under the sun that could turn her from hot to cold in that moment, but that glimpse past his exterior did it. The vulnerability shining through despite Fox’s best efforts was like a desk fan blowing across her sweaty skin, turning it clammy. Something akin to indignation scaled the walls of her chest. Something was wrong here. Something was inside of Fox that shouldn’t be, and she wanted to put a name to it.

Attempting to slow her breathing, Hannah removed her fingers from her underwear, letting them fall to her side. “Fox . . .”

He stepped back like he’d been shocked, nostrils flaring.

Opened his mouth to say something and snapped it shut again.

They stared at each other for long seconds. And then he reached for the doorknob, moving her gently but firmly out of the way so he could stride out, not stopping until he’d left the apartment.

Hannah stared at nothing, the opening riff of “Dazed and Confused” by Zeppelin playing in her head. What the heck just happened?

It wasn’t totally clear, but suddenly she didn’t feel so good about calling him Peacock—and in that moment, Hannah vowed she never would again.

Chapter Eleven

Fox would just pretend like it never happened.

That’s all there was to it.

What had actually happened, anyway? Nothing.

Apart from seeing Hannah in a bra and panties, which was an image that would be burned into his brain for all eternity, he’d put his mouth on her neck, run his hands over her smooth skin. Dirty talked her a little bit. So what? Even though he’d almost slipped, no boundaries had been crossed.

There was nothing to be tense about.

No reason for this fissure in his gut.

Fox scrubbed a hand up and down the back of his neck forcefully, trying to rid himself of the tightness. He stood in the kitchen surrounded by ingredients for potato leek soup, vegetables finely chopped on the counter with no cutting board. He’d made a mess, and he could barely remember doing it. Or walking to the store to buy everything he needed. All he knew was that Hannah would be back from set any minute now, and he felt like he owed her an apology. She’d needed something from him, and he’d failed to give it.

He’d turned her off.

Not on. Off.

Hannah must like the director more than he thought. Otherwise she would have let Fox blow her mind, right? That had to be the reason she’d stopped before it was over. Couldn’t be anything else. Couldn’t be that Fox had exposed himself by accident, and she didn’t like what she’d seen.

Could it?

He stirred a dash of thyme into the soup, watching cream swallow the green flecks, very aware of the pulse beating thickly in his throat. It wasn’t

as though rejection was a totally foreign concept to him. But after college, he’d kept himself out of situations where being denied was a possibility. He did his job well, went home. When he hooked up, the terms were already outlined with the woman ahead of time, no gray areas. No confusion about anyone’s intentions. No chances were taken. No new horizons were embarked upon.

This thing with Hannah was nothing if not a new horizon.

It was friendship . . . and maybe that was another reason why he’d fucking pushed it earlier today. Because he didn’t know how to be a friend.

The possibility of failing at it, disappointing her, was daunting. Now, distracting her with sex? That was so much easier.

The sound of a key turning in the lock made Fox’s insides seize up, but he stirred the soup casually, looking up with a quick smile when Hannah walked in. “Hey, Freckles. Hope you’re hungry.”

She visibly took his measure, hesitating before turning to close the door

—and Fox couldn’t help but take advantage of those few seconds she wasn’t looking at him, absorbing as much as he could. The messy bun at the nape of her neck, strands of sandy-blond hair poking out on all sides.

Classic Hannah. Her profile, especially her stubborn nose. The practical way she moved, pressing the door shut and locking it, her shoulder blades shifting beneath her T-shirt.

Jesus, she’d looked so hot in her underwear.

In street clothes, she was someone’s little sister. The girl next door.

In a black bra-and-panties set, holding massage oil, eyes laden with lust, she was a certified sex kitten.

And she might have purred for him temporarily, but she wanted to get her claws into someone else. He needed to get on board with that. For real this time. Deep down, he’d believed that if he just put in a little effort, of a physical nature, she would fall at his feet and forget all about the director.

Hadn’t he? Well, he’d been mistaken. Hannah wasn’t the type to genuinely like one man while hooking up with another, and it had been wrong, sickeningly wrong, to put her in that position.

Fox zipped his attention back to the stove when Hannah faced the kitchen once again. “That smells amazing.” She stopped at the island behind him, and Fox could sense her working up to something. He should

have known she couldn’t just pretend this afternoon didn’t happen. That wasn’t her style. “About what happened today . . .”

—”

Christ. Now she was going to try to make him feel better over the rejection? He would rather turn the hot pot of soup upside down over his head than listen to her explain she was being true to her feelings for the director. “You know, it’s totally possible to just eat this soup and talk about something else. I promise your urge to hash out every detail of what happened will pass.”

She moseyed around the far side of the island, dragging her finger along the surface. Then she reversed her course, filling one cheek with air and letting it seep out.

Man, it was wild that he could be frustrated with her inability to drop a sensitive subject while being grateful for it at the same time. He’d never met anyone in his life that gave a shit as hard as Hannah. For other people.

She thought that compassion made her a supporting actress instead of a leading one, and didn’t realize that her empathy, the fierce way she cared, made her something bigger. Hannah belonged in a category far more real than the credits of a movie. A category all her own.

And he wanted to give in to her. To rehash what happened in the bedroom earlier, his reaction to being made . . . useless. At least in that moment, he wanted to give in and let her sort through his shit, no matter how much this discussion scared him. Because every day that passed, she came a little closer to going back to LA, and Fox didn’t know when he’d

have her near him again. Maybe never. Not in his apartment. Not alone.

This opportunity would be gone soon.

He used a ladle to fill two bowls with the thick soup, added spoons and slid one across the counter to Hannah. “Can we just work up to it a little?”

he said gruffly, unable to look at her right away.

When he did, she was nodding slowly. “Of course.” She visibly shook herself, picked up the spoon, and blew on a bite, inserting it between her lips in a way he couldn’t help but watch hungrily, his abdomen knitting together and flexing beneath the island. “Should I distract us by telling you I had a terrible day? Not because of”—she jerked her head in the direction of the guest room—“not just because of that.”

His vanity was in fucking shreds. “Okay. What else was terrible about it?”

How intensely did he feel for this girl and in what way? Everything, every feeling or non-feeling, was usually wrapped up in sex for him. Only sex. Even if the director wasn’t in the picture, was he capable of going beyond that with Hannah?

Fox raised an eyebrow. “Who am I going to tell?”

Containing his amusement was difficult. “Your shit-talking needs work.”

He scrutinized her for a second. “If you were in charge, what would you do differently?”

When she didn’t elaborate, Fox realized he was holding his breath, waiting to see what she said next. “Generations . . . ?”

They were written by my father, apparently.”

But thought it would sound presumptuous. “That’s exciting, right?” He studied her features, noticing the tension around the corners of her mouth.

She made a wishy-washy sound. “It’s nothing.”

He cracked a smile, waved her on. “I’m waiting.”

Glumly, she shoveled a final bite of soup into her mouth and made a whole show of mimicking him, pushing her bowl aside and crossing her arms. “Look. This is me stalling.”

Why did he have to like her so fucking much, huh? “I can see that.”

His lips twitched. “Noted.”

When we were here last summer? And me . . . I was kind of pretending to.”

She stopped pacing to look at him, judging his expression, which he kept impassive. On the inside, he was curious as hell. “Okay. I get pretending.”

Hannah studied his face thoughtfully before continuing. “I was two years old when we left Westport. I don’t remember anything about Henry Cross or this place. No matter how much I dig, I can’t . . . I can’t feel anything for this . . . invisible past. Nothing but guilt, anyway.”

It was really bothering her. He could see that. And thus, it was bothering him. Not only that this lack of connection with Henry Cross was under her skin, but . . . what if he couldn’t find the right words to make it better?

Comforting women wasn’t exactly his forte. “Do you want to forge some kind of bond with the past? With Henry?”

Slowly, gratitude spread across her features, and he let out a breath.

Desperate for some way to get the attention off himself, at least while he was attempting to dole out comfort, he coughed into his fist. “Want me to take a look at them? I might recognize one or two.”

That got a laugh out of her, and some weight left his shoulders. “Okay, I’ll go grab them.” She seemed nervous about the whole thing, so they might as well get comfortable. While Hannah was in the guest room, he put their bowls in the sink and moved to the living room, taking a spot on the couch. A minute later, she returned with a faded blue folder stuffed with papers and sat on the floor in front of the coffee table, pausing slightly before opening it. She ran a finger over a line of script, brows drawn in concentration, then handed him a stack.

Fox scanned a few lines on the first page, didn’t recognize the lyrics, but the second one was very familiar. “Ah, yeah. I know this one well. The old-timers still sing it sometimes in Blow the Man Down.” His chuckle betrayed his disbelief. “I didn’t know Henry Cross wrote this. You always kind of assume these songs are a million years old.”

Hannah shifted into a cross-legged position on the floor. “So you know that one. Can you sing it?”

She gave him puppy-dog eyes, and his jugular stretched like the skin of a drum. Sucker. But knowing he could help, knowing he could do something to potentially make her happy? That was like holding the keys to a kingdom. Even if he had to sing to get to the other side. The desire to give Hannah what she needed had him adjusting the paper in his lap, clearing his throat.

There was a huge possibility this wouldn’t mean much to her, either, but when she looked at him like that, he had to try. “I mean, if it means that much to you . . .”

In a voice that definitely wouldn’t win him any contests, Fox started to sing “A Seafarer’s Bounty.”

Chapter Twelve

Born unto the fog

And ferried by the tide,

To the womb of his ship

Where he earns his pride,

A seafarer’s bounty

Means coin in hand and no one at his side.

The hunt has no end.

It’s a game, it’s the fame.

A love to defend.

A treasure to claim.

Boots to the deck, men, come on now, let’s ride.

Trade the glass

For my lass.

And the wild

For my child.

Trade the wind

For her.

Trade the mayhem

For them.

And it’s anchors down. There’s a life beyond the tide.

Treasure is not mere

Rubies and gold.

When a seafarer finds his warmth

From the cold.

No longer are the deep blue waves his only bride.

Home is the fortune,

Health is the prize.

To lie in her arms,

To look in their eyes,

By the laws of the land, a sailor will learn to abide.

Trade the glass

For my lass.

And the wild

For my child.

Trade the wind

For her.

Trade the mayhem

For them.

And it’s anchors down. There’s a life beyond the tide.

Soon, loves, soon.

Soon, loves, soon.

One last ride,

At the rise of the moon.

Then it’s home to my bounty.

We’ll write our family’s tune.

Hannah was eleven when she got her first pair of headphones.

She’d always sung along loudly to whatever played on satellite radio.

Always had a knack for remembering the words, knowing exactly where the tempo picked up. But when she got those headphones, when she could be alone with the music, that’s when her enjoyment of it soared.

Since they were a gift from her stepfather, of course they were completely over the top. Pink noise-canceling ones that were almost too heavy for her neck to hold up. So she’d spent hours upon hours in her room lying down, head supported by a pillow, playing the music her mother had loaded onto her phone. Billie Holiday had transported her to the smoky jazz rooms of the past. The Metallica she’d downloaded, despite lacking her mother’s permission, made her want to rage and kick things. When she got a little older, Pink Floyd made her curious about instruments and method and artistic experimentation.

Music could cut her straight down the middle. Nothing else in her life had the power to do that. She often wondered if something was wrong with her that a real-life event could have less of an impact than a song written

fifty years ago. But those two parallel lines—real life and art—had never collided like this. And for the second time since she’d met Fox, he was inside the experience with her. This experience she’d always, always had alone. Wanted to have alone. The first time had been at the record expo in Seattle when they’d shared a pair of AirPods in the middle of a busy aisle, the world ceasing to exist around them. The second time was now. In his living room.

Fox sang her father’s words, filling the unadorned living room with an echo from the past that wrapped right around her throat and squeezed.

His singing voice was slightly deeper than his speaking one, low and husky, like a lover whispering to someone in the dark, and that fit him so well, the intimate quality of it. Like he was passing on a secret. It racked her with a warm shiver and circled her in a hug she desperately needed, because, oh God, it was a beautiful song. Not just any song, though . . . It was about her family.

She knew from the first refrain.

An intuition rippled in her fingertips until she had to grasp them together in her lap, and as more and more lyrics about a fisherman’s growing dedication to his family passed Fox’s lips, his image begun to blur. But she couldn’t blink to rid herself of the moisture, could only let it pool there, as if any movement might swipe the melody from the air, rob her of the growing burn in the center of her chest.

So many times she’d tried to bridge the gap between herself and this man who’d fathered her, and never succeeded. Not when she’d gone to visit the brass statue in his honor up at the harbor, not in looking at dozens of photographs with Opal. She’d felt a tremor of nostalgia upon opening Cross and Daughters with Piper, but . . . there had been nothing like this. Hearing the song was almost like having a conversation with Henry Cross. It was the closest she would ever come. This explanation of his conflicting loves—

the sea and his family.

At one point, at least while writing this song, he’d wanted to quit fishing.

He’d wanted to stay home more. With them. It just didn’t happen in time.

Or he kept being pulled back to the ocean. Whatever the reason may be, with his confession, he finally became real.

Fox’s worried voice brought her head up, and she found him rising from the couch, coming toward her. He let the paper float down to rest on the table, and she watched it happen through damp eyes, her heart flapping in her throat.

She let the sentence trail off when her voice started to crack. And then Fox was scooping her up off the floor into his arms. He seemed almost stunned that he’d done it, circling for a moment as if he didn’t know what to do with her now that he had her, but he finally turned and carried her from the room. With her forehead tucked into his neck—when did it get there?—

she watched as they stopped in front of the door to his bedroom, his muscles tensing around her. “Just . . . I’m not suggesting anything by bringing you in here, okay? I just thought you’d want to get away from it.”

Did that make any sense? Not really. But to her, it did. And he was right.

She wanted to be removed from the moment before it ate her alive, and he’d sensed it. Fox shouldered open the door and brought her into his cool, dark bedroom, sitting them on the edge of the unmade bed, Hannah curled in his lap, tears creating twin rivers down her face. “Christ,” he said, ducking his head to meet her eyes. “I had no idea my singing was this bad.”

A watery laugh burst out of her. “It’s actually kind of perfect.”

He looked skeptical, but relieved she’d laughed. “I didn’t remember what the song was about until I was halfway through it. I’m sorry.”

His fingers hovered just above her face momentarily, before he used his thumbs to brush away her tears. “You’re the furthest thing from that, Hannah.”

Several moments ticked by while she replayed the lyrics in her head, content to be held in an embrace that was unrushed and sturdy. “I think maybe . . . up until I heard the song, there was part of me that didn’t really believe Henry could be my dad. Like it was all some mistake and I’ve been going along with it.”

His forearm muscles twitched beneath her knees. “I . . . No.”

Fox’s chest rumbled. “It’s ‘Thunderstruck’ for me. AC/DC.” A beat passed. “All right, I’m lying. It’s ‘Here Comes the Sun.’”

His warm T-shirt absorbed her laugh. “There’s no way to hear it without smiling.”

She snorted. “So their landscaper offered to drive me and Piper—who had actually peed her pants laughing—in the back of his truck.” She could barely keep her voice even, the need to giggle was so great. “We were driven to the closest hospital in the back of a pickup truck while the harmonica was stuck to my face. Every time I exhaled, the harmonica would play a few notes. People were honking . . .”

His whole body was shaking with laughter, and Hannah could tell he’d finally, fully relaxed. The sexual tension didn’t leave completely, but he’d shelved it for now. “What did they say at the hospital?”

He was laughing before, but now he fell backward, the sound booming and unrestrained. Hannah yelped as the mattress dipped, causing her to roll without warning on top of him. She ended up sprawled with her hip against his stomach, her upper half twisted so their chests were pressed together.

Fox’s laughter died when he realized their position.

Their mouths were only an inch apart—and Hannah wanted to kiss him.

Terribly. His darkening eyes said he wanted the same. If she was being honest, she wanted to straddle his hips and do a lot more than kiss. But she listened to her instincts, the same ones she’d heeded that afternoon, and held back, scooting away so they were no longer touching and her head was resting on his pillow. Fox watched her from under his hooded eyelids, his chest rising and falling, then carefully arranged himself across from her, his head on the other pillow. As if following her lead.

They stayed like that for a while, several minutes passing without either of them saying a word. Almost as if they were getting used to being in a bed together. Being this up close and personal without the weight of expectations. It was enough to simply lie there with him, and Hannah needed him to know that. She couldn’t shake the feeling that it was important for him to know that nothing needed to happen between them for this time together to be worthwhile.

Hannah didn’t move. Didn’t even swallow.

Fox shifted on the bed, held out the wrist on which he wore a leather bracelet. “This belonged to my father. He worked down the coast a ways. A fisherman, too. He married my mother after she got pregnant with me, but the marriage didn’t last beyond a few pretty miserable years.” He twisted his wrist, making the leather turn a little. “I wear this to remind myself I’m exactly like him and that will never change.”

* * *

The way he said it dared her to recoil. Or issue a denial.

But she only held his gaze and waited patiently, her fist curled into his pillow, eyes and mouth puffy from crying. Cute and compassionate and singular. One of a kind. And she was interested in this sob story?

What the hell was this, anyway? A heart-to-heart in the dark with a girl?

His headboard should be cracking off the wall right now. She should be screaming into his shoulder, drawing blood on his back. The cornered animal inside him bayed, begging him to distract. To reach over and fist her dress, drag her across the bed and roll right on top of her, make her dizzy with his tongue in her mouth.

His weapon had been taken away, though. She’d disarmed him this afternoon.

No armor. Nothing to deflect with.

And part of him seriously hated the vulnerable state in which she’d left him. The railing of his ship had disappeared, no barrier to block him from toppling into the turbulent sea. He didn’t want this kind of intimacy. Didn’t want sympathy or pity or understanding. He was just fine continuing to guard the wound. Pretending it wasn’t there. Who the hell was she to come and rip off the bandage?

She was Hannah. That’s who.

This girl who didn’t want to have sex with him—and yet was still interested. Lying there in his bed wanting to know more about him. No sign of judgment. No impatience. No movements at all. And as much as he resented the intrusion into his inner hell, Jesus, he fucking adored her, wanted to give her anything she wanted. So badly that it burned.

I wear this to remind myself I’m exactly like him and that will never change.

With his words hanging in the atmosphere, he stuffed his hand under the pillow, putting the bracelet out of sight. “I never made a conscious choice to be like him, I just was. Even before I’d ever been with a girl, it was like . . .

everyone treated me like being . . . experienced was inevitable. There is something in my personality, the way I look, I guess. The parents of my schoolmates were always saying, Look out for that one. He’s got the devil in his eyes. Or, He’s the one your mama warns you about. It didn’t make sense when I was younger, but as I got older and started to recognize my father’s behavior with women, I figured it out. My sixth-grade teacher used to say,

He’s going to be a heartbreaker. Everyone laughed and agreed and . . .

Look, I don’t remember exactly when it started, only that I eventually embraced that image once I was in high school until there was a blur. Just a fucking blur of bodies and faces and hands.”

He breathed in and out through his nose, locating the courage to keep going. To completely unwrap himself in front of this girl whose opinion mattered so much to him.

And . . . after a couple of days at his place, I knew. I knew I didn’t want to be like him, Hannah.”

Some details he kept to himself.

Already he felt like this whole seedy explanation of his lifestyle was corrupting Hannah. This sweetheart with all the fucking promise in the world and a head full of songs didn’t need his past taking up space in her mind. They were on opposite ends of the bed, like two sides of the moon—

one dark, one light—so he wouldn’t tell her about the revolving door of women he’d witnessed coming in and out of his father’s apartment that weekend. Or the sounds he’d heard. The flirting and fighting and cloying smell of pot.

Fox swallowed hard, begging the pace of his pulse to slow. “Anyway.”

A full minute passed while he tried to get it together. He wasn’t sure he could explain the rest until Hannah slid her hand across the bed and threaded their fingers together. He flinched, but she held on.

Probably have Brendan to thank for that. He was always roping me into study groups and forcing me to do flash cards with him.”

expectation. “Most of my friends stayed close for college, but I got out of here. I wanted to get rid of this image. This . . . label as the local stud. I’d earned it, fine, but I didn’t want it anymore. So I left. I went to Minnesota and I found new people. I was a new person. The first two years of college, I dated occasionally, but nothing like what I was doing in high school. Not even close. And then I met Melinda. We didn’t go to the same school, but she lived close by and . . . I thought it was serious. I’d never been in a real relationship before, but it felt like one. We went to the movies, out of town.

I stopped seeing other people. It was like, shit . . . I can do this. I don’t have to fit into the mold anymore.”

A sharp object slid between his ribs, preparing to skewer.

Was he really going to tell her the next part and humiliate himself on purpose? It was bad enough that he had to live with the embarrassment of what happened back then, let alone watch Hannah register it. But her grip was firm on his hand, her eyes unwavering, and he just kept going, like he’d been given an invisible push, no idea where he would land but knowing he couldn’t stop now.

had been seeing each other for months. Kirk was livid, but Melinda . . . she just laughed.”

Hannah frowned. Her first visible reaction to the whole sordid story. For some reason, he absorbed that reaction like a sponge. Yeah, it was confusing, right? Yeah. She thought so, too. That was something. He’d have to explain in a minute, and her confusion would clear up, but for now, that frown provided him the push he needed to finish.

Because of this. Because he was jealous over her finding me attractive. And spoiler, she’d definitely called his bluff on the hall pass. He was not okay with it at all. He walked away from the start-up, moved out of the dorm.

Never wanted to speak to me again—and I couldn’t blame him. I’d done the exact type of shit everyone expected me to do since grade school. Brought sex with me everywhere I went, intentional or not. It didn’t matter how much I tried to be someone else, this manwhore label is welded onto me.

Melinda knew it without any information about my past. My business partner wouldn’t even bring his girlfriend around me. It’s just what they saw in me.”

Fox realized he was breathing fast and took a moment to slow down.

They stayed very still, very quiet for several moments.

Panic ensued when Hannah started to scoot closer, her expression somber.

When she reached his side of the bed to stroke his face, he pushed their foreheads together, teased her lips with a brush of his own. Hannah couldn’t disguise her reaction. Or the soft shudder that worked through her limbs and belly. Slowly, he dragged her tight to his body, locking their mouths

together. It was fight-or-flight. Go on the offensive or risk further exposure, no matter that he was fighting the exact thing giving him comfort.

Distract. Distract.

She nudged his jaw with her nose and settled closer, as if letting him know she wasn’t afraid. “Just like this.”

Even after what he’d just told her?

Wasn’t she paying attention?

She could resist him all she wanted, hold his hand and be his friend, but nothing would change him. His identity was set in stone. What did she want from him?

This, apparently. Just this.

Wanted whatever he was, a blend of faults and ugly truths, wanted him just to lie there with her.

It took him some time to wade through the disbelief, but he finally managed to slide one arm beneath Hannah, cradling the back of her head in one hand. Carefully, he drew her into his neck, his eyes closing over the balm she spread inside him. Not quite healing his wounds, but definitely dulling the pain for a while.

Just for a while. He’d just hold her . . . for a while.

Seconds later, Fox fell asleep in Hannah’s arms.

Chapter Thirteen

Hannah opened her eyes on Monday morning and absorbed the sight of Fox across the pillow they shared, morning light beginning to peek through the blinds behind him, outlining his bedhead in burnished gold. With his mouth slightly parted, beard growth shadowing his jaw and upper lip, he was startlingly gorgeous. Seriously? At six A.M., he could be shooting an advertising campaign for Emporio Armani.

After last night, however . . . she couldn’t look at him without seeing past the packaging to the uncut gem beneath. Smooth and glorious on the outside. But on the inside, his light hit a jagged peak and refracted in a thousand different directions.

A dull ache spread down the middle of her chest, deepening so quickly that she had to press a palm to the spot, rubbing to alleviate the pressure.

The pain he’d revealed last night had walked across the bed and burrowed into her breast, refusing to vacate—and she didn’t want it to leave. She didn’t want him to carry it alone. He’d clearly been doing that a long time, letting the damage fester.

What did it mean for Hannah to help him shoulder the burden of his past? Was she being a good friend—and a friend only? Or did her determination to stand with Fox come from somewhere else entirely?

Somewhere . . . romantic?

Because that wouldn’t be a good idea.

That wouldn’t be a good idea at all.

After last night, she would never consider him a player again. By selling himself short and doubling down on his irreverent image, he was playing himself more than anything. But he was still Fox Thornton, confirmed

bachelor and connoisseur of women. He didn’t want a relationship, period.

He’d told her that.

So no matter what sticky, reckless feelings might be bubbling to the surface, the supportive buddy position was the only one available to her, wasn’t it?

Hannah’s thoughts scattered like the head of a dandelion when Fox’s blue eyes opened, spearing her from the other side of the pillow. They were warm, a little relieved. And then he blinked and up went his guard.

Words crammed into her chest. Phrases she’d learned from her therapists over the years. Things she wanted to say to Fox that would explain why he felt so terrible over what happened in college. Suggestions for adjusting his outlook, and assurances that none of it was his fault.

For once, all the fancy supportive language in the world felt inadequate, though. Somehow, over the course of the night, she’d entered the fray with Fox without making a conscious decision. She was in it, this battle for his soul. Now that she was here, however, it was beginning to seem unlikely that she could remain too long without . . . falling for him.

God. She was. Falling fast.

He pushed up onto an elbow. “Wasn’t looking for a sorry. It’s fine.”

Hannah nodded. She looked over at him and . . . oh boy, there it was. An overwhelming urge to touch him. To push him down onto the mattress, climb on top, and tell him in between kisses that he was way more than a hall pass. Way more than he gave himself credit for. But that went beyond supportive friend. Those were the actions of a supportive girlfriend—and she couldn’t be that for him.

His big shoulder shrugged, the laughter not quite reaching his eyes. “It feels like I’m sending you off with nothing.”

The chasm that had formed down the center of her heart last night widened, and she barely managed to swallow a sound of distress. And then

the anger flooded in. How dare his teachers and full-grown adults sexualize him at such a young age? How could his father bring women over while his eighteen-year-old son was visiting? Who were those monsters he’d befriended in college? They probably worked for the IRS now. And yes, a fair bit of rage was directed squarely at herself, because she’d definitely called him a pretty-boy sidekick the first time they’d met. Peacock after that. She wanted to bang her head against the wall now for being like everyone else.

Before Hannah could stop herself, she’d turned and walked on her knees across the bed, wrapping her arms around Fox’s neck, hugging him in a manner that was freakishly tight, but she couldn’t seem to make herself stop. Especially when his arms crept up and surrounded her, pulling Hannah to his chest, his face dropping into the slope of her neck.

His swallow was audible. “We sail for five nights on Wednesday. Two days from now. Kind of a longer trip than usual. I just . . . If you were curious or wanted to know when I’d be gone.”

They looked at each other hard, neither of them seeming to know what to do with that information. Timelines, schedules, leaving, coming back.

How it related to them as two people who’d just slept in the same bed.

So she kissed his coarse cheek and gave him a final squeeze, trying not to notice the way his hips shifted, his mouth breathing hard against her neck. “Just this, Hannah?” His long fingers slid up into her hair to cradle the back of her head, subtly tilting it to the left and brushing his lips along her pulse. “Just hugging for us?”

With one word of encouragement, Hannah knew she would be flat on her back and would love every second. But maybe . . . maybe her mission here wasn’t to be the supportive friend, but to prove to Fox that he could be

one. That his presence and personality were enough without any of the physical trappings. “Just like this.”

Was she asking a lot of Fox to try seeing himself in a new light? Wasn’t she in the process of doing that herself—and not finding it very easy?

Maybe if she wanted this man to believe he could captain a ship and rely on his wit and humor and spirit alone, then she had to believe in herself first.

She couldn’t ask him to reach for a higher summit if she wasn’t willing to reach herself.

The opening notes of “I Say a Little Prayer” by Aretha Franklin tumbled through Hannah’s head, and her eyes flew open, a grateful smile curving her lips. Hallelujah. The songs were back. Sure, the lyrics were a little alarming, considering she was lying in Fox’s bed, but maybe the whole song didn’t have to pertain to their relationship. Just some of it? Just the prayer parts, maybe?

Hannah swallowed. Why had the songs returned now? Had listening to Fox sing Henry’s shanties last night shaken them loose? The beckoning of a new direction for her career? Or did the return of her music-minded thinking mean something else?

Reluctant to examine the possibilities too closely, Hannah allowed herself a long inhale of Fox’s scent, then unwound her arms from his neck, refusing to acknowledge the low pulse between her legs or the flapping in her chest. Not today. Probably not ever.

She climbed off the bed, her back warmed by his attention, left the room, and went into the bathroom. Once she’d showered, dressed, and blown out her hair, she stopped in the living room, hesitating a moment before picking up the folder full of original sea shanties and holding them to her chest. With Fox nowhere in sight, she left the apartment, returning once for an umbrella due to the clouds moving in overhead. But instead of heading down to today’s shooting site, she let the hook in her gut pull her toward the record store, instead.

* * *

Hannah sighed when Disc N Dat came into view, nondescript and lacking in any signage, the blue Christmas lights adorning the window the only indication that it was open for business.

Last summer, she’d taken a part-time job at the record store. Mainly to add enough money to their budget that Piper wouldn’t have to cook anymore and potentially burn the building down. But she’d also needed a way to occupy herself so Piper wouldn’t feel terrible about spending more time with Brendan. Throw in the fact that Hannah lived for records, and it had been the perfect short-term gig.

A sense of familiarity settled over Hannah when her hand curled around the bronze handle and pulled, the smell of incense and coffee wafting out and beckoning her into the musty haven. She was relieved, especially today, to see that nothing had changed. Disc N Dat was still reliably dated and welcoming, the same posters that had been there over the summer still pinned to the wall, row after row of Christmas lights twinkling on the ceiling, Lana Del Rey rasping quietly from the recessed speaker.

The owner, Shauna, walked out from the tiny back room, face buried in a coffee mug, appearing almost startled to have a customer. “Hannah!” She brightened, setting her cup down on a console table that displayed her beaded jewelry and dream catchers. “I was wondering when you’d finally stop by.”

the kind of hug one gives the person who talked them through their first typhoon. “I really don’t have any excuse.” Hannah turned in a circle, absorbing her surroundings. “I think I was worried if I came back in here, I would quit my job on the spot and beg to get this one back.”

Hannah blew out a laugh. “I hope they were quality, at least?”

Oh, not much. Just in the process of realizing I have feelings for a man who is the definition of unavailable.

But her head came up when Lana’s voice faded out and a series of notes opened the next song—were those fiddles? Followed by the ominous pound of a drum. Then came the voice. The gravelly female call to attention that made the hair on Hannah’s arms stand up.

Shauna pointed to the speaker questioningly, and Hannah nodded. “This is the Unreliables. My cousin’s girlfriend is the lead singer.”

Now this music would be perfect for Glory Daze. Replacing the industrial sound with the dramatic pound of the drum, the rush of emotion in the singer’s voice, the folk element of the fiddles. It would bring the small-town story to life. Give the film more than just texture—this sound would give it character.

Only when Shauna came up beside Hannah did she realize she’d been staring into space. “What’s in the folder?”

Hannah murmured that last part, because a light bulb had started flashing in her brain. She looked down at the folder, flipping it open and leafing through page after page of lyrics with no music. But what if . . . music could be added? The lyrics were deep and heartfelt and poetic. Compelling.

They’d made Henry feel real to Hannah. What if she could take it one step further and bring his music to life?

Was that a crazy idea?

—“collaborate? I have these songs from my father, and I’d love to add music like theirs, add a voice—and they would be perfect. I only have the words, obviously, so they’d have a lot of creative input . . .”

Oh boy.

Now that one light bulb had gone off, her whole head looked like Hollywood Boulevard at night. She’d gone days without inspiration, and now it was pouring in, all because of the faded blue folder in her hands.

Glory Daze took place in Westport.

Westport was Henry Cross.

How many times had she been told that?

Currently, the music soundtrack was made up of songs that already existed and that never felt right to Hannah. Music for another time and place that dulled the magic of this location. It dulled the impact of Westport as the backdrop. But what if the score was made up of songs written by the man who defined this place?

Compensate them.” If there was ever a time to give in and use the family money available to her, this was it. And wow. All of this felt like leading-lady moves. But they felt good, so she took them one step further. “I’d like to have some input as well.”

Shauna nodded, seeming kind of impressed. “Let me reach out to my cousin to see if they’re available. But don’t count on them. It could be a dead end. They’re not called the Unreliables for nothing.”

Shauna shuffled across the ancient floor and plopped herself down on a stool behind the counter. “Where have you been staying while you’re in town? With Brendan and Piper?”

Shauna slapped her thigh. “Oh! Wait, I take back what I said about only having two customers. Fox has been in here a bunch, too, lately.”

Hannah did a double take. “Has he?”

walked in. You know, he was a senior at the high school when I was a freshman. The Fox Thornton.” She shook her head. “You don’t just expect that face to breeze in off the street. Took me a few minutes to stop babbling.

But he has pretty good taste. Last thing he bought was Thin Lizzy. Live.”

Confusion settled over Hannah. “But he doesn’t even own a record player.” She took a mental tally of the sparse apartment. “Unless it’s invisible.”

Chapter Fourteen

Hannah shifted in her sneakers, curling and uncurling the blue folder in her hands, waiting for Brinley to finish talking on her cell.

There was a good possibility this wasn’t going to go well. But the more Hannah turned over the idea of recording Henry’s shanties, the more it felt right. Inevitable. At the very least, she needed to voice the concept. To try.

For Henry. For herself. And maybe she needed to try for Fox, too. Not because he expected or required her to make leading-lady moves, but because she couldn’t encourage him to reach beyond his capabilities if she wasn’t willing to do the same.

Speaking of Fox, she had a serious itch to hear his voice. Right now, while her nerves were trying to get the better of her. Normally her go-to person would be Piper if she needed a verbal chill pill, but she found herself pulling up her miles-long text thread with Fox, instead, her stomach calming simply from seeing his name on the screen. Keeping Brinley in her sights, she punched out a message.

HANNAH (1:45 PM): Hey there.

FOX (1:46 PM): Hey Freckles. What’s up?

H (1:46 PM): Not much. Just saying hey.

F (1:47 PM): If you miss me so much, tell them ur sick and come home. I’ll take you shoe shopping with me.

H (1:48 PM): Play hooky with a fisherman? Sounds dangerous.

F (1:48 PM): You won’t feel a thing.

H (1:49 PM): Lies. Back up. Shoe shopping? Did I accidentally text my sister?

F (1:50 PM): I need some new XTRATUFs. Rubber boots for the boat. At the risk of diminishing my insane sex appeal, mine are starting to reek.

H (1:52 PM): Sex appeal maintained. Unbelievable.

F (1:54 PM): It’s a curse.

F (1:55 PM): I can see you from the window. Turn.

Hannah’s upper half twisted to find Fox looking back at her from his upstairs apartment, and an involuntary smile spread across her face. She waved. He waved back. And a powerful yearning to spend the day with Fox caught her so off guard, her arm dropped, a king-sized knot forming in her throat.

H (1:58 PM): Is it weird I want to sniff your boots to judge exactly how bad they are?

F (1:59 PM): It’s your funeral.

F (2:00 PM): You’re one of a kind, Hannah.

H (2:01 PM): So they say. See you later. Thanks.

F (2:02 PM): For what?