Page 32 of More With You

“You came,” is all he says, in a voice so soft and relieved that I nearly promise him, there and then, that I’m going to give this a shot.

I nod. “My grandma always told me it was rude to stand someone up.”

I’d planned to be distant, but my resolve is already crumbling.

“Then, I’m grateful to her.” He smiles, but it’s tentative, like he’s testing the waters. “What do you think?”

“Of the boat?”

He pats the side of it. “Borrowed her from Lou, at the hefty deposit of me losing my balls if I so much as get a scratch on her.”

“I hope you didn’t sign anything binding.” I muster a smile of my own. I can’t help it. “She’s seaworthy, right?”

Ben feigns disapproval. “I’m going to tell Lou you asked that. She’s been roaring along since the thirties and showing no signs of stopping. I’d say she’s the most reliable boat along this coast. See, all those big, shiny ones might look impressive, with all their fancy gadgets and gizmos, but they cut out at the slightest thing: a speck of rain, an unexpected wave, too much humidity.” He leans against the mooring post. “Meanwhile, this lady is built to last.”

“Why are boats always female?” I’ve always wanted to know.

He shrugs. “Something to do with Latin and ancient folks giving genders to inanimate objects.”

I notice a name painted on the side. “Who’s Elizabeth?”

“Lou’s daughter. I think it used to be called the ‘Rosalie’ after his wife, but she didn’t want to be associated with an old boat anymore,” he explains, chuckling. “I promise, she’s not going to let us down,” he adds hastily, offering his hand to me. “Will you come aboard, Miss?”

My hand is in his before I can stop it, feeling the rough of his calloused palm and the warmth of his skin. It transports me back to my cottage, with him, before everything imploded. “Why not?”

“There’s just one rule.” He pauses. “Shoes off.”

I laugh and slide off my trusty Birkenstocks. “I’m glad I didn’t wear something with twenty buckles, or you might’ve had to help me.”

“I’d have been happy to.” He bends to pick up my shoes and, a moment later, his hand slips out of mine, and I’m being swept off my feet, literally.

I shriek as he lifts me into his arms and carries me onto the boat, giving him a playful smack on the arm for surprising me. Still, in all my twenty-six years, it’s the most romantic thing anyone has ever done. Properly romantic, too, not done for some sense of ego or self-gratification.

“There’s nothing wrong with my legs, you know?” I tease, as he sets me down on a sofa-type recess, a short distance away from the steering console.

He grins. “Oh, I know that.” His fingertips trace a tender caress down my thigh and to my knee, where his touch falls away. His gaze flits between my eyes and my legs and his teeth graze his lower lip in a longing bite, like his mouth wants to follow the tingling guideline that his fingers have left behind.

Not yet, I tell myself. There are too many things between us that need to be cleared out of the way, first. I won’t make the same mistake twice.

He seems to remember that, as he walks to the steering console and turns the key in the ignition. “You just sit tight.” He glances back over his shoulder. “There’s bubbly in the cooler, so pour yourself a glass and enjoy the ride.”

A moment later, we’re pulling away from the dock and the throb of the engine is vibrating through the boat. I open a hatch in the side of the seating and find a bottle of champagne with two glasses, nestled in a sea of ice. There’s fruit, too, and I help myself to a strawberry as I pluck out the bottle and set about popping the cork.

“Are you allowed a glass? I don’t like to drink alone!” I shout above the roar of the wind and the waves, my mouth sweet with the taste of ice-cold strawberry juice, perfectly ripened by the summer warmth.

He smiles back at me. “Just the one.”

Are you hoping we’ve got reason to celebrate? I focus on the wire cage that holds the cork in place, but I can’t help stealing a few glances at his wide shoulders and the back of his neck. Another spot my lips are eager to kiss. There’s something about the neck that’s almost more intimate than the mouth.

Before long, I’ve got a glass of champagne in one hand and the taste of a few more strawberries on my tongue, while his glass waits, untouched, to one side. Taking my drink, I move away from the sofa and go to stand at the side of the boat, clinging to a handle so I don’t get jostled by the cut of the vessel through the water.

“It’s beautiful!” I yell, splitting my view between the coast we’re sailing parallel to, and the scattered, barrier islands to my right, which eventually give way to the Gulf itself.

The water is a cloudy sort of green, tumbled and roiled into rippling whitecaps from the motion of the boat. I see flashes of silver here and there, where fish are riding or escaping the manmade waves, and gulls wheel overhead, likely mistaking us for a trawler.

“What?” Ben shouts back.

“I said, it’s beautiful!”

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