Page 33 of Unmoored

“You’re… are you waiting for me to compliment you?”

It’s hard to tease Eden when he’s always two steps ahead, and I think I just fell into another of his traps. Right on cue, he widens those pretty eyes, leans against the railing, and pouts up at me.

“Yes, skipper,” he murmurs, batting his lashes. “I thought you should know how well I take orders, Captain Murph.”

Holy fucking fuck.

That’s all I have to say about that. Otherwise, my brain is fully offline. I don’t think there’s enough blood to go around—not when it’s all needed elsewhere.

A few little words, one little look, and I’m simmering with a white-hot, urgent, fumbling desire that I can barely hold back.

Hands. Silk shirt. But… it’s almost unbuttoned?I curl my hands into fists, focusing on the feeling of residue from the gas cans.Dirty hands. Wash them, now.

“Mmph,” I grunt, my voice almost cracking under the strain of holding myself back. “Good work, Eden.” Then I wheel around and march straight into the boat as Eden’s laughter puts wind in my sails.

First door on the left.

I tug it closed and turn on the tap. At last, the world stops spinning around me quite so dizzily. I don’t know if it’s the cold water streaming over my hands, or the door between me and Eden… but I canalmostthink straight again.

I swallow hard, looking up at myself in the chipped little mirror hanging over the sink. There it is again, in my eyes—something bright, eager, and… a little bit wild.

It’s not like I don’t recognize myself, but… it’s a different version of me. Bold, yet calm. A little more spontaneous than usual. Not quite so willing to fade into the background. Then the moment fades, and I’m just inspecting myself in the mirror like a grade-A dweeb.

I shake my head slowly, turning off the tap. If I want to have dinner—before I have him, my thoughts unhelpfully interject—I’m going to have to keep it in my pants.

As I pat my hands dry on the towel, I study the little built-in bathroom that looks like it was installed in the 70s. There’s a box in the corner, stuffed to overflowing with skin and hair products I couldn’t begin to identify.

“Huh,” I murmur, slowly shaking my head.

It’s like seeing two different portraits of Eden at the same time. The guy who has all these products, and makes a fuss about everything… and the guy who quietly accepts days of cold showers without saying a word.

Which one is the real Eden? Or is it something else entirely?

After one more glance to make sure I look presentable, I head down the narrow hall into the open-plan galley and living area. It’s all plywood and bare metal in here, but bathed in the golden sunset light it still looks nicer than I expected.

The art canvases leaning against the walls help. It’s a touch of colour—and of Eden.

Speaking of whom, there he is—sitting at a little table on the bow deck. He’s prettied it up with a white tablecloth and flowers. Even the rickety plastic lawn chairs can’t detract from the charm. If anything, it’s weirdlymoreromantic.

But Eden’s staring absentmindedly across the harbour, nervousness written all over his face. His brows are drawn together. His lips curve down in this soft frown that knocks the wind out of me.

Something tender aches in my chest. Of course I want to ravish him… but first, I want to treat him right.

I scuff my shoe against the plywood to warn him that I’m coming, and sure enough, that smile slips right back into place.

“Hi,” I greet as I duck my head to step out through the double doors.

It’s a busy time of evening, with boats coming and going along the strait between the islands. All the passersby can see what’s going on—and among the tourists, there are a lot of islanders who know me.

Dollars to donuts, gossip will be in the air tomorrow. But I don’t care.

“Wow,” I murmur, smiling as I grip both arms of the flimsy plastic chair and carefully squeeze myself into it. “This is all so pretty.”

“Thanks.” Eden ducks his head, his cheeks pink. “Sorry. My chairs aren’t really made for you.”

I’m waiting for him to say something like,but my bed is… but he doesn’t. He just blushes, glancing down at the table and back up—letting me see a glimpse of his nerves.

I smile at him, trying to radiate all the calm I can. “I won’t make any sudden movements,” I promise. Then I look down at the table, my eyebrows flying up. “Whoa. What’s all this?”

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