Sullivan stilled, unfocused gaze lingering on Reid’s face. His Adam’s apple bobbed and he pivoted sharply toward the kitchen, but not before Reid glimpsed pain in his eyes. “I think this is a bad idea.”
Joanna calmly slid a mug over the kitchen counter toward him. “Please, Dad? I need this.”
Sullivan’s voice came out thin, stretched, exhausted. “Joanna . . .”
“Callaghan said Reid was as good as they come. You trust Callaghan’s judgement.”
Sullivan grunted.
“One-month trial,” Joanna said. “If you’re not convinced Reid is the perfect man, we’ll let him go.”
“Fine, okay,” Sullivan gave in. “Maybe he’ll fall overboard before that.”
“Dad,” Joanna warned.
“I won’t push him over.” Sullivan blinked toward Reid, who crawled off the couch and pulled himself up using the table leg. “God, I won’t need to.”
Reid managed not to wave a merry middle finger at his new boss. “I’m very partial to this vest. May I keep it?”
The new neighbor was perpetually neon, noisy, dramatic; he was everything I tried not to be, and I couldn’t look away.
-James
Second Time Around
Chapter Three
Not five minutes on the Aquarian—Joanna curiously absent—and Sullivan was already angling for Reid to give up and go home.
Like last week at the café, Sullivan was ridiculously mouthwatering wearing jeans and a navy button-down, sleeves pushed mid-forearm. Unlike last week, his jaw hadn’t seen a shave, and a black-and-orange whistle hung from a lanyard around his neck. It all added to his sex appeal—and Reid would not go there.
He was a professional.
Steady blue eyes absorbed Reid from his shoes to his bag to his coiffured hair. Reid ignored his tightening skin, and the way his breathing shallowed when Sullivan grunted.
An absolute professional.
“It’s not exactly five-star accommodations,” Sullivan warned.
“My other option is sleeping under a bridge.” A swell had Reid smartly hugging the life vest he’d toted into the belly of the vessel.
Sullivan raised a brow, as if he knew how Reid’s stomach somersaulted.
Reid loosened his hold on the vest, adjusted the weight of his backpack, and flashed Sullivan his most dazzling smile.
Sullivan jerked his gaze away and opened a glossy wooden door. “This will be your cabin—the nanny nook.”
Reid peered past Sullivan into a cozy room that smelled like waxy polish and fabric softener. A tall, single bed with cupboards beneath filled most of the space. A wooden board was hinged and roped to the wall. Presumably it transformed into a desk. A bookshelf basin was built into the bed’s headboard, and as Joanna had promised, a porthole looked onto the sea.
Reid squeezed inside, dropped his bag and vest onto the mattress, and lifted The Titanic off the shelf. “I like the attention to detail. The bed is missing a pillow, though.”
“Right.” Sullivan retreated to the hallway.
“Wait.”
Sullivan paused, jaw square, eyes pinned to the wall above Reid’s head. “Yes?”
Reid hopped a few inches to sit on the bed. Firm, comfy. He toed off his shoes. “So, are you, like, related to Alexander Graham Bell?”
Sullivan was positively nonplussed. “Pardon?”
“Cal mentioned you being an inventor, and with a surname like Bell . . .”
“So if A equals B, and B equals C, then A must equal C?”
Cue Reid’s dumbfounded surprise. “Huh?”
Sullivan leaned against the doorframe. “I am a Bell and a scientist. Alexander Graham Bell was a Bell and a scientist. Therefore all Bells are scientists?”
“And related to each other.”
Reid loved the exasperation Sullivan speared him with. It quite . . . flurried about in his stomach. This job might be fun after all.
“Your logic astounds me.”
Reid tapped his temple. “My mind is full of it.”
“Full of it, all right. Much like your resume, I suspect.”
He suspected correctly. Not that Reid had lied on his resume, per se. He’d merely . . . embellished.
Loretta’s idea. She thought it showed Reid as energetic, creative, and highly capable.
Who cared his participation in soccer league had been during kindergarten?
Maybe it was a good thing that Loretta and her questionable influence wouldn’t be around for a while . . .
A small hiccup of loss climbed to the base of his throat, and Reid pushed it down, like he’d been doing since Loretta and Natalie’s last hug this morning.
He swung his legs, heels bumping the drawers. “I really am into history.”
Sullivan re-entered with a whiff of wood and rope and salt. He scooped Reid’s shoes off the floor and set them in an overhead cupboard, tucking in the laces and locking the latch. “I’d like to work a couple more hours before Joanna gets home. We can discuss the upcoming week over dinner.”
“Should I, er, cook?” Totally not one of the skills he’d embellished . . .
Sullivan eyed Reid and the vest trapped under Reid’s palm. “In your state, I don’t think it’s wise to play with knives.”
Reid feigned hurt. “How cutting. So takeout it is. What’s Joanna’s favorite food, great-grandson of Alexander Graham Bell?”
Sullivan sighed. “Pizza, and I am not related to the inventor. I lecture part-time at universities around the country and spend the rest of my time tinkering with solutions to ocean waste.”
“Ah, a humanitarian.” Reid liked what he was hearing. “You want to protect the world and all the people in it.”
Sullivan harrumphed. “The ones I like.”
With a flash of inspiration, Reid stood. This was the perfect opportunity to forge a first connection. They’d be friends before he knew it. “Watch this, Captain.”
“Sullivan.”
“Yes, sir.” Grinning wickedly, Reid pinched the zipper of his hoodie and pulled.
Sullivan visibly stiffened—more with every tooth the zipper popped open. Maybe it was Reid’s angle or the light catching on Sullivan’s face, but Sullivan looked like he’d been carved out of the wall, one wooden hand at his side, the other clutching the doorframe, his legs crossed.
Sullivan’s eyes flashed. “What are you doing?”
“Convincing you that you like me.”
“Keep your clothes on, I beg you.”
Reid laughed, prowling forward. Sullivan still didn’t move.
“Magic!” Reid opened his hoodie with a final flourish. He pushed out his chest and bared his bright yellow Recycling Rules T-shirt.
Relief hit Sullivan’s expression and Reid rolled his eyes. Sullivan might not be homophobic, but he was clearly uneasy about men joking around.
“See? Recycling,” Reid said, flattening the T-shirt across his not-quite-so-broad, but not shabby chest. “We have things in common.”
“Things might be a stretch.”
Sullivan walked off.
Reid grabbed his vest and hurried after him. “What about that pillow?”