Hook, Line, and Sinker (Bellinger Sisters, #2)(34)

“No.” Oh no. Now she was thinking about Fox asking for her permission to masturbate. It was like someone saying, “Don’t think about pink elephants.”

Except the pink elephant was Fox’s penis.

“No, of course not. This is your apartment.” And now she was reluctantly fascinated. “You use massage oil for that?”

He hummed in affirmation. “It doubles as a lubricant. You’re welcome to borrow it.” His attention dropped to the knot between her breasts, then lower, to the spot where the hem of the towel brushed her mid-thigh. “But only if you like to make yourself nice and sensitive first.” He rubbed his knuckles over the breach of his belly button, through dark-blond hair and faded ink. “Kind of like foreplay with your own fingers.”

A swallow got stuck in her throat.

A bead of sweat ran down the small of her back.

“I’ll leave it in the bathroom cabinet.” He winked at her as he backed away, eventually turning for his bedroom. “Orange bottle.”

“Oo-kay,” she said, tongue heavier than lead. “Thanks?”

Did friends share lube?

Maybe only people who were friends with this particular man?

“I’ll be working on the boat all day,” he said on his way into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him before calling through the crack, “See you down at the harbor, Freckles.”

Oh.

Great.

She walked to her room in a daze.

*

Fox watched the film crew move like clockwork from his vantage point on the deck of the Della Ray. Three big white trailers were parked on the road, young people with headsets and clipboards scurrying around. Others congregated around a table of food and drinks. Large fluorescent-lamp-looking things surrounded two actors—a moody, skinny guy and a redhead who went from mooning over each other to checking their phones and not speaking in between takes.

For the last hour, he’d been replenishing supplies with Sanders and repairing the hydraulic launcher. They really only needed the piece of equipment for crab season, but apparently he was making every excuse to be out on deck.

Where he had a clear view of the film set.

Hopefully after this morning, Hannah wouldn’t feel the need to defend his character anymore. She’d just disregard him with a knowing smirk, like everyone else, and he could get rid of this hope she inspired in him. He could stay where it was safe. Where his crewmates and fellow Westport residents chuckled and joked about him, but at least they weren’t questioning his legitimacy as a leader.

Surely Hannah would laugh off a guy who had a favorite brand and scent of massage oil? Even though he’d never needed the shit until recently.

Usually, if he required relief and his hand was the only option, he just worked it out with a lathered palm in the shower. Now that he was seeing his five digits exclusively, he’d sprung for something with a little pizzazz. Sue him.

Brendan would kick his ass if he knew Fox had spoken to her like that. But he’d had to weigh the threat of his best friend’s wrath against Hannah’s growing expectations of him. Because he was definitely not a fucking captain. Not someone to be trusted with a valuable boat or the lives of five men. Definitely not someone Hannah offered her mouth to in the moonlight. Or berated strangers over.

Just a good time. Nothing more, nothing less.

Sanders walked out on deck beside Fox and greeted him with a grunt. He tossed down the wrench he’d been using to repair the oil pump and swiped a hand over his wealth of carrot-colored hair. “Fuck sake, it’s hot down there. I’m thinking of installing a window in the hull. Do you think Brendan would mind?”

“If you sank the ship in hopes of a cross breeze? No, not at all,” Fox answered drily, a stillness settling over him at the sight of Hannah and Sergei discussing something over a clipboard. His fingers gripped the rope he was coiling in his hand, letting the material bite into his skin, harder and harder until Hannah finally walked away. Was the director staring after her?

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.