Page 42 of Taken By the Pack

He has dark brown hair, wavy from the salt air, and steel-gray eyes that barely flick to me before he starts offloading crates of crab and lobsters like I don’t exist.

Tom calls out, “Rowan!”

The guy glances up, unsmiling.

“This fella here needs a boat,” Tom says. “Think you could help?”

Rowan sets a crate down with a thud. “Not for hire.”

I step forward. “Not asking for a tour. Just need a ride to a few locations, out past the main reefs. I pay, you fish. You don’t have to do anything else.”

He doesn’t look impressed. “Don’t take people out.”

“I work with a research institute. I need to observe the tide pools regularly for six months.”

“Still not my problem.”

I exhale, pushing a hand through my hair. “Look, I’m not asking for favors. I’ll pay you two hundred a trip. Twice a week.”

That gets his attention. He pauses mid-motion, looking at me for the first time.

Then he turns back to his crates. “Talk fast.”

I take that as progress. “The studies I’m doing help track changes in the marine ecosystem. Water temperature shifts, acidity levels—things that affect fishing patterns. I’m not just looking at rocks.”

Rowan doesn’t say anything, just keeps working, muscles flexing under his jacket as he lifts another crate.

I try again. “If certain species start moving because of temperature shifts, it means adjusting fishing routes before it’s too late. Could help prevent a lot of problems down the line.”

Finally, he stops, wipes his hands on a rag, and looks at me. “How much again?”

“Two hundred a trip. Twice a week. You just fish, I do my work.”

He thinks on it. Long enough that I start wondering if I should up the price. Then he nods once.

“I leave early,” he says. “Six too early for you?”

“Not at all.”

“Good. Meet me at Thorne Beacon lighthouse tomorrow.” He picks up another crate. “Don’t be late.”

I grin. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

I thank him, excitement settling in. Looks like I’ve got my ride

12

GRACE

The kitchen smells like garlic and oil, and I’m fussing over the sausages in the pan, prodding them with a fork even though they don’t need it.

The damn sink’s dripping again, a slow, irritatingplop,plop, that’s been getting on my nerves all morning. I huff, turning the heat down and twisting the faucet handle harder, like that’ll do anything.

The front door swings open, and in walks Jake, smelling like cedar and pines, and something sharper, something clean and warm and stupidly, unfairly good.

My stomach tightens. He’s in a worn-out Henley, sleeves pushed up—exposing those forearms should be illegal. His jeans are slung low on his hips, and his boots scuff against the floor. He takes one look at me, then at the sausages, and smirks.

“Domestic life suits you, Grace.”

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