Hook, Line, and Sinker (Bellinger Sisters, #2)(31)

Without a word, Hannah linked their arms together, laying her head against Fox’s shoulder, the show of trust cementing right over the hole in his belly.

“Jesus, Freckles,” Fox said, tracing the part running down the center of her head. “We need to work on your quarters game.”

She gasped. “What do you mean? I won!”

“Ah, no. You were the least-worst loser.”

Her laughter rang down the misty street. “What is the advantage of winning when you have to tell people something embarrassing about yourself? It’s backward.”

“Welcome to Westport.”

She sighed, rubbed her cheek against his arm. “On nights like this, I think I could live here.”

Fox’s heart lurched so hard he had to wait a moment to speak. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. But then I remember what a crazy idea that is. I can’t live in Westport and continue working in entertainment. And the bar . . .” She smiled. “The bar is Piper’s.”

Well, that’s that. Right?

How the hell would he handle it if Hannah moved here, anyway? He’d see her constantly. Every Saturday night would be like this. Pretending to her and everyone watching that he didn’t want to take her home. Really take her home. And once that happened, well. He’d be screwed. He’d have broken his own rule about not hooking up in Westport, fucked his relationship with Brendan, and potentially hurt Hannah’s feelings. It was best for everyone if she stayed in LA.

But tell that to the disappointment so heavy that it almost dragged him down to the cobblestones.

They turned right on Westhaven and crossed the street, walking along the water without verbally agreeing to it. “Do you love the ocean as much as Brendan does?”

There she went, asking him questions that made him think. Questions that wouldn’t allow him to skate by with a quip—and he didn’t really like doing that with Hannah, anyway. He liked talking to her. Loved it, actually, even when it was hard. “I think we love it in different ways. He loves the tradition and structure of fishing. I love how wild nature can get. How it can be more than one thing. How it evolves. One year, the crabs are in one place, the next they’re in another. No one can . . . define the ocean. It defines itself.”

Hannah must have been holding her breath, because she blew it out in a rush. “Wow.” She looked out over the water. “That’s lovely.”

He tried to ignore the satisfaction of being acknowledged and understood because of something that came out of his mouth. It wasn’t often that happened to him. But he couldn’t shrug it off, so he just let it settle in.

“Okay, I think you’ve convinced me. I want to hunt king crabs.” Hannah nodded firmly. “I’m going to be your newest greentail.”

He couldn’t tell if she was joking or not.

She better be joking.

“A rookie is called a greenhorn—and that isn’t happening, babe. You can’t even keep your balance during quarters.” An actual shiver blew through him thinking of Hannah on the deck, fifteen-story waves building in the background. “If you hear me screaming in the middle of the night, you’re to blame for my nightmares.”

“I can just be in charge of the music on the boat.”

“No.”

“You got me feeling all romantic about the ocean. It’s your fault.”

He looked down into her face and finally, thank God, was positive she was joking. And goddamn. In the moonlight, her amused features, her shining eyes . . . they were a masterpiece. His body thought so, too. It liked her mouth most of all, how she moistened the lush pillows of her lips, as if preparing for a kiss. Who wouldn’t kiss this beautiful girl, so full of life, in the moonlight?

Fox lowered his head slightly. “Hannah . . .”

“Be careful of that one,” someone shouted from across the street. “Run while you can, girl.”

Laughter broke out, and Fox knew, before turning to look, that it would be the old-man regulars from Blow the Man Down, smoking outside in their usual spot. The same men he’d made jokes to hundreds of times about his exploits in Seattle. Because it was easier to give them what they wanted. Laugh with them, instead of being laughed at. Make the joke, instead of being the joke. And above all else, don’t let them see how much it all bothered him.

Hannah blinked several times and stepped back from him, as if becoming aware of her surroundings and what had almost happened between them. They’d almost kissed. Or did he imagine that? It was hard to think with the warning signal going off in his head. Jesus, he didn’t want Hannah to hear the kind of garbage that came out of these men’s mouths.

“Who are those guys?” she asked, leaning slightly to look past him.

“No one.” He took her wrist and started walking at a fast clip, glad she’d worn sneakers so she could easily keep up. “Just ignore them. They’re drunk.”

“Your mama didn’t warn you about tomcats like this one? Make sure he shells out the cab fare—”

Hannah skidded to a stop beside Fox, yanking her arm free.

Before he could get ahold of her again, she’d marched halfway across the street.

“Hey, scumbag! How about you shut your mouth?” She jabbed a finger at the leader, and his cigarette froze on the way to his mouth. “Mamas don’t bother warning girls about jerks like yourself, because no one would come within ten feet of you. Smelly old ball sac!”