One Funeral (No Weddings #2)(39)

In fact, he seemed hell-bent on making up for lost time.

The hill ended into a narrow berm that abutted a dock. He slowed as we approached a wooden structure with windows and a peaked roof. “Look at this boathouse. You can’t see this baby and not want to know what’s inside.”

I shook my head, laughing. My racing heart argued with my common sense, thrilling at Cade’s rule-breaking nature. In a sudden reckless moment, seeing the boyish excitement on his face, I wanted to break into the boathouse as badly as he did.

When he gripped the knob and it turned, he grinned. “See? Our contract gives us full legal access to the property, and there was no lock. It’s like an engraved invitation.”

The boathouse was a mixture of dark and light, dry and damp. It was both quiet, in the sense that only the two of us were there, and full of rich sound, from the wind whistling through the rafters to the water lapping at the support posts in the water. A large sliding door with windows was latched closed on the far end, and an open slip for watercraft extended under it into the center of the structure. Along the wall, hoisted up toward the ceiling, were all manner of wooden boats, from rowing to sailing.

“A scull!” Cade shouted, the word echoing around us. He crossed to the far side of the boathouse and began unfastening a long, narrow rowboat from the wall.

“Cade, what are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing? Come over here. Untie that end.” He wrestled with knots in the ropes that held the thing up on a pulley system.

“We’re going to be arrested,” I grumbled.

“No, we’re not. And you’re going to live a little, even if you have to be dragged there, kicking and screaming.”

I glared at him but kept my mouth shut. He had a valid point—I was a tad reclusive and conservative—so I did as he asked, untying the knot. He hooked rope slings that were hanging from an overhead mechanical apparatus around each end of the scull.

Then he crossed to the corner of the boathouse and messed with the buttons of a control panel. With a loud creak, the mechanical system roared to life, and the scull began to move away from the wall, toward the center of the boathouse. He paused halfway, fastening two sets of oars into a built-in framework for them.

Understanding dawned into my slow brain as the sleek, shallow craft finally touched the water, and he turned the mechanism off. “Oh no. I’m not getting in that thing.”

Squatting down, he unfastened the ropes from one end. Without looking at me, he replied, “Oh yes. You are.”

I shook my head, backing up, crossing my arms. “I’ve never rowed.”

“So I’ll teach you.”

“You’ve done this before?”

Cade stood, then walked over and embraced me. His gentle strength and warmth surrounded me. And as I inhaled the incredible scent of Cade, every muscle in my body seemed to relax. I looked up into his dark blue eyes. Happiness reflected there, and I sighed, smiling.

“I rowed crew in college, Maestro. Trust me, this will be fun.” He bent down and gave me a gentle kiss.

I froze for a split second, then relaxed as his soft lips teased mine. My hands skimmed over the hard planes of his abs and chest through the thin material of his T-shirt as I imagined him rowing crew. The muscles beneath my fingers, flexing with every pull, had crafted this beautiful body. I pressed in, leaning up, intensifying our kiss.

When I grew breathless from lack of oxygen, he pulled away, grinning, and pecked a tiny last kiss on the tip of my nose, keeping his arms locked tight around me. “Now which is it going to be? Voluntarily? Or kicking and screaming? Because I have to say, I’m really turned on by the latter.”

Having Cade wrapped around me with his intoxicating scent short-circuited my brain. Somehow, he won the argument by his sheer irresistible presence.

“You are a very bad man.” I narrowed my eyes.

He grinned. “You love my badness.”

I shook my head but said nothing, unable to argue the truth. With a speed I’m sure was designed to take me out of my head and prevent further protests, he guided me forward, held my hands, and lowered me down into the rocking boat. I held my breath the whole time.

“Where’s my life jacket?” I stared into the black water lapping against the pillars under the boathouse.

He frowned. “Can you swim? Sorry, I assumed you could.”

Wrapping the fingers of both hands around one of the oars, I glanced up. “Yes, I can swim.”

On a headshake, he turned, going over to the control panel again. “Then you don’t need a life jacket. You have your arms and legs, and you have me.”

A few seconds later, a motor hummed to life, and the door moved, sliding open. My crazy mind fabricated images of our tiny sliver of a boat being sliced in two by some daredevil kamikaze speedboat driver who’d had too many beers to notice us. But there were no sounds of speedboats outside. So I took a deep breath, forcing myself to be in the moment, not lost in a half dozen worst-case scenarios.

The self-administered advice struck me as parallel to what Cade and the therapist had been telling me: worrying about the future only stymied a person in the present.

I forced all thoughts from my brain and looked at Cade, who stared at me, waiting.

I gave him a confident smile. “No life jacket. I’m an excellent swimmer.” And somehow, saying the words made me believe I didn’t need to cling to a life preserver on more than a literal level.