Instead, she lowered the spoon and watched him solemnly, a wealth of thoughts dancing behind her eyes. “You don’t want to be the captain of the Della Ray?”
“Of course I don’t, Hannah.” He laughed, a buzz saw turning against the back of his neck. “It’s an honor to be asked. That boat—it’s . . . a part of the history of this town. But, Jesus, I’m not interested in that level of responsibility. I don’t want it. And he should know me well enough to realize that. You should know me well enough to realize it, too.”
Hannah blinked. “I do know you well enough, Fox. The first conversation we ever had was about you being content to take orders and walk away whistling with a paycheck.”
Why did he hate the first impression he’d given her when it was perfectly accurate? He was even perpetuating it now. Doubling down. Because it was the truth—he was content like this. Needed to be.
At eighteen, he’d had aspirations of being something other than a fisherman. He’d even formed a start-up with a college friend and fellow business major. Westport and his tomcat status were almost in the rearview when he realized he could never escape it. From thousands of miles away, his past and the expectations people had for him cast a shadow. Spoiled the business and partnership he’d tried to build. His reputation followed him, poisoning everything it touched. So, yeah, there was no sense trying to be something he wasn’t.
Men didn’t want a leader, a captain, they couldn’t respect.
“That’s right.” He turned and took a beer out of the fridge, uncapping it with his teeth. “I’m fine right where I am. Not everyone has to strive for greatness. Sometimes getting by is just as rewarding.”
“Okay.” He faced Hannah again in time to see her nod, seeming like she wanted to stay silent but was unable to do it. “Have you let yourself visualize being captain, though?”
“Visualize it?” He raised an eyebrow. “You’ve never sounded more LA.”
“If LA gets one thing right, Peacock, it’s therapy.”
“I don’t need therapy, Hannah. And I don’t need you to play the supporting actress, all right? That’s not why I told you. So you could talk me through my problems.”
She reared back, losing her grip on the spoon. It clattered onto the island, and she had to slap a hand down on it to stop the tinny noise. “You’re right,” she breathed. “That’s exactly what I’m doing. I’m sorry.”
Fox wished for quicksand to swallow him whole so he wouldn’t have to see the dazed acceptance on her face. Had he really put it there? What the hell was wrong with him? “No, I’m sorry. That was a shitty thing for me to say. I’m sorry. I’m being . . . defensive.”
Her mouth lifted at the corner, but her heart wasn’t fully in the smile. “Being defensive? You’ve never sounded more LA.”
God, he liked her.
“Look, I can’t”—there was a pulsing squeeze in the dead center of his body, demanding he give her something, a pound of flesh, in exchange for snapping—“visualize it. Okay? When I visualize myself as the captain, I see an imposter. I’m not Brendan. I don’t take everything under the goddamn sun seriously. I’m just a good time, and everyone knows it.”
He took a long sip of his beer, set it down with a clank. A few years back, Brendan had promoted him to relief skipper, and despite Fox’s reservations, he’d grudgingly taken the position, knowing he’d seldom be required to take the wheel from steady-as-hell Brendan. Ever since then, the men liked to joke that Fox didn’t mind sloppy seconds. When he took the wheel for a brief spell, they equated it to his one-night stands.
In and out. Just long enough to get your dick wet, right, man?
Fox laughed, pretended to let it roll off his back, but the comments dug under his skin, deeper each time. Especially since last summer. Now Brendan wanted him to be captain? To face even more skepticism and lack of respect? Not a fucking chance.
“Eventually he’d realize asking me was a mistake. I’m just trying to be considerate and save everyone some valuable time.”
Hannah sat silent for a moment. “This is how you feel when I say I’m not a leading lady, I guess.”
That gave him pause. The fact that she’d cast herself in some permanent benchwarmer role did drive him crazy. But no, they were coming from different places entirely. “The difference is, you want to be a leading lady. I don’t want to be the hero of the story. I’m not interested.”
She pressed her lips into a line.
Fox narrowed his eyes at her. “Are you doing that thing with your mouth because you’re trying to trap all the psychological terms you want to throw at me?”
Her expression turned miserable. “Yes.”
He forced a laugh. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Freckles, but there’s nothing here. Not everyone is fertile ground for fixing.”
She lifted her shoulders and let them drop. “Okay, I won’t try. If you tell me you don’t want to be the captain, I’ll believe you. I’ll support that.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” A few seconds slid by. “After you visualize yourself being good at captaining. Put yourself in the wheelhouse and imagine yourself enjoying it. The crew thinks of you as a good time, but there is a time for fun and a time for responsibility. They see that you recognize the difference.”
“Hannah . . .” Why was he panicking? He didn’t want to visualize himself being taken seriously as Brendan’s replacement. That would only lead to false hope. Didn’t she realize that? Besides, it wasn’t possible. Even if his imagination could conjure something so unlikely, he would never be able to realistically see himself in that leadership position. “I can’t do it,” he said, jerking a shoulder back. “I can’t see it, Hannah, and I don’t want to. All right? I appreciate you trying for me.”
After a moment, she nodded. “Okay.” A slow, playful smile. “I’m afraid our time together is up. We’ll resume this discussion during next week’s session.”
“I’m sorry there weren’t any breakthroughs.”
She took her time enjoying another bite of chocolate ice cream, his suspicions rising when her mouth took on a cocky shape around the spoon. His bottle of beer remained poised an inch from his lips as he watched Hannah swagger around the counter, neatly placing her spoon in the dishwasher. “Oh, I think I sowed a few seeds.”
And maybe she had.
Because when she looked up into his eyes, he pulled enough strength from her to visualize himself in the wheelhouse, just for the briefest moment. For the very first time since Brendan asked him to consider the job, he let himself grip the imaginary wheel, knowing he wouldn’t have to give it up the second Brendan came back from taking a leak or fixing something in the engine room. He’d have it from the time they set sail, right up until docking again. He imagined hearing his voice over the radio, movement on the deck.
Returning home having done everything right, earning the respect of the crew—that’s where he got stuck. He couldn’t see that for the life of him.
Fox banished the image as quickly as possible, clearing his throat hard. “Good night, Freckles.”