Yeah. He was.
That kiss the other night had worked its magic. Good.
Maybe she’d asked him to lift a heavy piece of filming equipment. Or employed some strategic lip biting. All thanks to his urgings.
It wouldn’t be too long before they were both headed back to LA with a shiny new appreciation for each other.
Great.
Ignoring the acidic taste in his mouth, Fox went back to repairing the launcher and tried to focus. The sun beat down on the deck, unseasonably hot, until he and Sanders eventually gave up on shirts and shoes altogether.
Fox used to hate this kind of tedious work. He wanted to be out in the gale, warring with waves, battling their impact, witnessing nature at her angriest. Watching as she changed her mind in a matter of seconds. Maybe humans couldn’t change, but nature could. Nature lived to change.
Lately, he hadn’t minded the pedantic tasks as much. The repetition of bringing the Della Ray out to sea, docking it safely, and preparing it for the next run. Beneath his feet, the deck was warm, the vessel bobbing gently in the water, catching wakes from other boats taking tourists out to whale watch or on pleasure excursions. Salt flavored the air. Gulls floated on the breeze overhead.
In some other life, maybe, he would wrap his hands around the wheel of his own boat and greet nature on his own terms. Introduce himself as the one in charge, instead of the one who took orders and went home without the weight of responsibility. Growing up, occupying the wheelhouse had been the dream. A given. He’d learned to block it out, though. He’d blocked it so thoroughly, light couldn’t even seep in around the edges.
A trill of notes in Fox’s pocket had him swiping a forearm across his sweaty forehead and slipping out his cell.
Carmen.
He squinted an eye down at the name, trying to remember the face that belonged to it. No luck. Maybe the stewardess? If he answered the phone, her voice would probably jog a memory. Or he could ask for a reminder of her social media handle and figure it out that way. Most of the girls he met up with in Seattle didn’t get bent out of shape over his blurry memory, anyway. They were just as interested in low commitment as Fox.
Staring down at the phone, he let it go to voicemail without answering, knowing damn well the box was full. He hadn’t listened to the messages in months.
A minute after the phone stopped ringing, a text popped up on the screen.
Are you around tonight? —C
A vein started to throb in the middle of his forehead. Probably from the sun.
He tossed aside his phone, scrubbing at the itch on the back of his neck. He’d answer the message later. Or he wouldn’t. There was something about the steady stream of hook-up calls that almost . . . panicked him lately. Had there always been so many?
Fox made no excuses for liking sex. The buildup and release of it. That race at the end when he didn’t have to think, his body just doing the job.
Fox’s phone dinged with another text message—not totally unusual for a Sunday, since his weekends were usually reserved for women, although his phone saw the most traffic on Friday nights. Lately he’d been going so far as to throw the goddamn thing into the refrigerator so he wouldn’t have to hear or see any of the incoming messages. When was the last time he even answered one of them? Or left Westport to hook up?
You know exactly how long it has been.
After Hannah left last summer, he’d gone to Seattle. Once. Determined to rip out the twinge she’d left in his chest, the constant barrage of images of their days together.
He’d brought someone out for a drink, literally sweating over how shitty he’d felt the whole time, unable to focus on a single word she’d said or their surroundings. When the tab arrived, he’d dropped a fistful of cash on the bar, made an excuse, and bounced, the roiling in his stomach only settling when he’d pulled over to text Hannah.
Sanders cracked a can of Coke open to Fox’s right.
“You going to answer those booty calls, man?” The deckhand took a gulping pull of his drink, balancing it on the edge of the boat. “How am I supposed to live vicariously through you if you’re not even living?”
“Oh, I’m going to call them back.” Fox flashed a smile that made the throb in his head worsen. “Maybe all of them at once.”
Sanders’s guffaw ran circles around the harbor.
On cue, Fox’s phone started ringing again.
He yanked once, twice at the leather cuff around his wrist.
“Answer,” Sanders said casually, tipping his head at the device. “We’re almost done here.”
In a high-pressure job full of ball-breaking adrenaline seekers, showing weakness was a bad idea, unless he wanted even more mockery. “You just want to listen in and steal my moves.”
“You don’t need moves, pretty boy. You just show up and take your pick. Me? I’ve got a face like a fucking walrus. I need moves.” Sanders drained the rest of his soda in disgust. “I suffered through that live-action Cats movie last night trying to score points with the wife. One fart—one—and I lost all my progress.”
Fox bit back a smile. “No luck, huh?”
“Had to sleep on the couch,” grumbled the deckhand.
“Don’t take it so hard, man.” Fox shivered, despite the heat. “That movie could dry up the Pacific.”
“I don’t know, there’s just something about Judi Dench . . .” Sanders mused.
Fox’s phone beeped with another text, and he seriously considered throwing the damn thing in the ocean. He didn’t even bother checking the name this time. He wouldn’t be able to remember her face and that only made the taste in his mouth worse.
“What are you doing here? Playing hard to get?” Sanders chuckled, prodding Fox in the gut with an elbow. “That would be a first.”
“Yeah.” Fox laughed, his gaze straying back to where the movie was filming, finding Hannah in the group, surprised to find her looking back at him over her shoulder, her lip caught between her teeth. Thoughtful.
He saluted her.
She sent him back a half smile.
“Yeah . . .” Sanders was still going. “You’ve never been one to play hard to get. Remember senior year? Almost didn’t graduate because you spent so much time getting busy in the parking lot.”
Fox tore his eyes quickly off Hannah, feeling guilty for even looking at her while having this discussion. “Hey.” He shrugged. “I still think it should have earned me extra credit toward my physical education grade.”
Sanders laughed and went back to work.
So did Fox, but his movements weren’t as fluid, cranks turning on either side of his forehead. Eventually he found himself braced on the edge of the boat, seeking out Hannah once again, watching as she talked to a sharp brunette. He could tell by Hannah’s body language that something was off. Wrong.
Was that the soundtrack lady?
Had the songs come back for Hannah?
He could have asked her about it this morning instead of trying to divert her focus from his insecurities to something he was not insecure over in the slightest—sex. Too late for regrets now. Too late to worry about how his best friend would react if he knew Fox had talked to Piper’s little sister about jacking off while he was wearing nothing but briefs and a smile.
Brendan was still clearly worried that Fox would make a move on Hannah. Despite the Talk. Despite common decency and the fact that touching her would almost definitely be unforgivable. But no one expected good behavior out of him. Not Brendan, not the people in town, the crew, anyone. Sanders had just neatly reminded Fox of that. Reminded him of it so well, he felt like a shower was in order.