Page 17 of Rum Sips and Salty Lips

“What are you doing here?” she asks when she gets close to me.

“I live here,” I say.

“No, that’s not possible. You live on a boat.”

“I moved.”

“But I live here.”

“No, pretty sure I bought this house.”

She rolls her eyes. “I mean, I live there.” She points to the house next to me.

“Fascinating.” I shove my hands into my pockets. “Well, this makes it easy for you to show me around town.”

“No. I can’t do this.”

“Why?” My annoyance grows. We didn’t leave on the best of terms with her flying out of the cabin. I thought that was because everything was more intense than we expected. Not that she never wanted to see me.

“We can’t sleep together again.”

“I know. You said that. We’re neighbors. We’re not sharing a bedroom or anything.” Eventually, I’ll at least convince her that visiting each other’s bedrooms is a good idea.

She looks around as if searching for an exit, and I need her attention back on me.

“Let’s go inside,” I suggest, turning to the door. She nods and follows. I lead us through my living room to the kitchen. It’s the first room after my bedroom I unpacked. I can’t wait to spread out and cook everything I don’t have the space for on the boat. I checked out Haley’s blog and I already bought what I need for the famous fish tacos.

Carina’s skin is a little pink. I can’t tell if it’s from the sun or if she was working out. She walked to the marina that day, and now that I know where she lives, I’m not all that surprised. She probably does that a lot. I’ve checked out her brand—she’s genuinely concerned about the environment, focusing on sustainable fabrics and recyclable packaging. Maybe she just got home?

I don’t understand why she doesn’t wear a hat.

She’s removed her sunglasses and holds them in one hand as she plants herself in front of the fridge. I lean back against the counter with my arms crossed, watching her.

“Look, the sex was great, but it won’t happen again,” she says.

I take a small victory in her admitting that much. “Spell out why for me, exactly. And detailed, please.” I need to know what she’s thinking. I won’t play catch-up.

“I only do flings. Short, casual, we have our fun and then go our separate ways. If we’re neighbors, which we are, we can’t go our separate ways. It’ll get messy.”

It might not get messy, but based on my history, she’s right.

“What if it doesn’t get messy? What if it works?” I counter.

She rolls her eyes. “I’m thirty-two. You’re, what?”

“Thirty-five.”

“You’re single so it clearly hasn’t worked for you before. It’s never worked out for me,” she continues. “No reason to believe after one night this one would be different.”

“You’re committed to being single forever?” We’re both young enough. This isn’t the eighteen hundreds. She’s not a spinster. Isn’t the whole point of dating to find the one that does work?

“I have a fulfilling life. I don’t owe you an explanation of my choices. Areyoueven looking to settle down?” Her “you” is full of accusation—she can’t imagine I’d want this.

Yes, I want to yell. But she’s right, at least for now. I need to get my life in order with moving and the new business before I pursue any type of relationship. I don’t know if things would work out with her. But just because I don’t know the future doesn’t mean I’m willing to completely write us off. I can wait. Get to know her better. Then take a fully informed risk.

I never sail without knowing the weather. This is the same thing.

“Even if I did want to settle down,” I muse, testing some waters, “and things went well between us, we’d eventually want to move in together. My place or yours?” She’s a thinker and a planner. Let’s see how far ahead she plans.

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