Page 12 of A Father's Bliss

After releasing the wheel, I scoot over to the side near the railing. The boat remains at a slow but steady speed, slicing through the water until we’re free of the marina and positioned toward the center of the lake. As hues of dusty blue and purple begin to creep into the sunset, the surrounding forest grows darker, while the city light twinkle brighter.

It’s nothing short of breathtaking.

I turn back to Marcus who is clicking buttons on what looks to be a control panel. “What’s that?”

He finishes whatever he’s doing before he straightens. “An autopilot of sorts. It will ensure the rudders keep us on our very slow course so you can catch dinner.”

My eyes widen. “But what if I don’t catch anything?”

He smirks, opening the sliding glass doors. “Then we don’t eat.”

“Talk about pressure,” I mutter as he disappears into the cabin. First, steering a boat, and now, catching dinner. Who knew I’d be training to be a boat captain.

He’s only gone a second, and when he reemerges, he’s carrying a folded chair, small tackle box, and fishing rod. “I’m confident you’ll be perfectly fine.”

I prop a hand on my hip. “And why’s that?”

Marcus steps next to me, setting down the box and unfolding the chair before tilting his head in my direction. His lidded gaze is heavy. “Because you’re so very good at following instructions.”

My lips part, and my core squeezes as I force myself to not read into yet another string of words that feel like they mean something completely different. But doing so is getting extremely hard. “Fine. But don’t be mad at me if you end up hungry on Father’s Day.”

He gives me one last smirk before bending to the tackle box. “I won’t go hungry. I can promise you that.”

“Are you sure we aren’t moving too fast? Maybe they see the worm and they’re like, ‘hey, let’s stay away from that incredibly suspicious fast moving worm.’”

It’s only been twenty minutes, but I’m already sure I suck at fishing. That or I’ve decided it’s a lot hotter to read about in books than actually do.

Marcus, who’s been leaning on the railing, listening to me ramble on about the zodiac constellations in the sky, just shakes his head. “We aren’t even moving the equivalent of a mile an hour at this point. You just have to be more patient.”

I purse my lips. “I am being patient. But aren’t you hungry?”

He lifts a noncommittal shoulder. “Only a little. And you most certainly are not being patient. Guess you’ll be getting a crash course on that as well.”

At that same moment, my stomach contorts disgustingly.

With a deep sigh, he pushes from the railing and holds out a hand for the pole. “Alright, new deal because I can’t have you out here starving.”

I gladly release the infernal stick and nearly collapse into the chair he brought out. “Please.”

“I'll catch the first one, but after we eat, you’re going to try again.”

“Yes, deal, but only if you start talking.”

He leans forward again, his forearms braced against the rails. “What would you like for me to talk about?”

Over the past four years, I’ve picked up bits and pieces of what makes Marcus Debois who he is. I know he comes from a wealthy, supportive family, forwent being a doctor and instead fell in love with books, and decided to pursue a career where he could consume them as much as possible. Had a baby his senior year of high school, and exclusively raised him while in college, only having a nanny’s assistance during the few hours he was in class.

I know he’s intelligent, kind, and won’t say no to a late afternoon coffee run.

But also, I feel like there’s still so much more to learn.

“Worst book you’ve ever read?” I stand and join him at the railing. Instead of facing the water though, I turn my back to it, and prop myself up by my elbows. “And why?”

For a moment, he simply stares at me, his pupils expanding into the pools of his irises. But then one corner of his lips twitch. “Corners of the House. It used numerous unnecessary plot devices, and the unmasked killer was a character the reader only met once. It felt as though the author didn’t want to make the reader hate any of the characters he gave depth to and took an escape route.”

“Maybe he didn’t want to break the readers’ hearts.”

He lifts a brow. “You mean, make us feel anything? There was no shock, disgust, redemption, or justification. Just a pretty bow to tie it all together.”

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