Troubles in Paradise (Paradise #3)(13)

“Take your shoes off,” Huck told them.

The oldest kid, maybe fifteen, said, “These are Cactus Jacks.”

“Doesn’t matter. Please take them off.”

“It’s Travis Scott’s shoe,” the kid said.

“This isn’t Travis Scott’s boat,” Huck said. He didn’t admit that he had no idea who Travis Scott was. He hadn’t paid attention to basketball since Jordan retired. “It’s my boat and you are to remove your shoes, please.”

The youngest of the kids couldn’t have been more than five; he was too little to be out on the boat without a dedicated caretaker, which his father—whose sole focus was catching mahi—most certainly was not. The father mentioned that the mother was having a spa day at Caneel, and he admitted that he wasn’t used to having the kids by himself. The father took the first fish (Huck hated when grown men did this, ahead of their own kids, in the name of “Let me show you how it’s done”), and he also took the fourth fish, forgetting about son number three, who was rightfully pissed off. Kid number three retaliated by grabbing his father’s phone out of his pocket and dangling it over the side of the boat. This wasn’t the first time Huck had seen this—it happened at least once a month, usually when Huck had a bachelor party on the boat; guys got drunk and bent out of shape or were screwing around—but Huck had never seen anyone flip out the way the father flipped out. He roared so loudly that even Huck flinched, and when the father went to grab the phone from his son, it fell in the water.

You deserved that, buddy, Huck thought.

Chaos ensued. They had to stop the boat, get the diving mask and the bait net, and go fishing for the phone, which was most certainly resting on the seafloor twenty feet below. The littlest kid fell when no one was looking and got a bloody nose but the father was only concerned about his phone. He couldn’t live without it. Was there a store on this “stupid little island” where he could get it replaced that afternoon?

“St. Thomas,” Huck said, his fists itching.

It had been a terrible charter and Huck was convinced that if Irene had been there, she would have established an order for the fish so that no one got overlooked, no one got angry, no one got hurt, and Huck didn’t have to hear his home of the past twenty years insulted by a man-child.

He wants to tell Irene this story and let her know what a joy it is to have a woman in his life who understands the particular texture of his days, but she’s in no state to hear it. He’ll save it for later, after all this has been resolved and they’re back to normal.

Will this be resolved?

Will they be back to normal?

“I appreciate your generosity but I can’t impose on you forever,” Irene says. “Unfortunately, I have nowhere else to turn right now. I feel like such a burden.”

“You’re not a burden,” Huck says. “Maia wants you here and so do I.” He moves an inch closer so that their elbows are kissing, and she doesn’t move away. Huck wonders if he should hug her. He places an oh so tentative hand between her shoulder blades and she snaps to attention, ramrod straight. Huck lets his hand drop.

Okay, he gets it. No touching.

“This isn’t a fairy tale where I’m a damsel in distress and you’re the hero swooping in to save me.”

“I know it’s not, AC,” he says.

“Please,” she says. “Stop calling me that.”

“Okay,” Huck says, and now he’s hurt. AC stands for “Angler Cupcake,” which, she’d told Huck, was what her father used to call her. Huck likes the nickname. It doesn’t exactly suit her—Irene is too sensible and straightforward to be any kind of cupcake—but he likes that he has a nickname for her. It suggests intimacy, friendship, something special between the two of them. But fine; she wants him to stop, he’ll stop.

“I can’t do this,” Irene says. “I told you last night that I need more time.”

But that was before ten FBI agents showed up to seize the villa, Huck thinks. That was before she learned her Iowa home was gone as well. Huck thought maybe that had changed things. But apparently not.

“I promised I’d give you as much time as you need,” he says. “And I meant it.”

“Except now I’m living in your house!” Irene says. “Mooching off you, taking advantage of your kindness! Don’t you understand how…confusing that is?”

“No,” Huck says. “I don’t. We’re friends, Irene. Okay? And coworkers. If you want to keep it just friends and coworkers, I’m good with that. I’m not exactly inviting you to share my bedroom, am I?”

“But you want to, don’t you?” she asks.

“Want to what?”

“Invite me to share your bedroom!”

Huck can’t figure out if his answer should be yes or no. The truth is yes. Should he be truthful? “I want you to sleep where you’re comfortable. You know my feelings for you, AC. Sorry—Irene. But I’m not interested in forcing this along.” He’s so agitated that he lights a cigarette. This is the kind of conversation he likes the least—murky, ambiguous. They’re middle-aged. Why can’t they just say what they mean? “If it moves forward, it will be when you’re ready. I’m a patient man, Irene. I’m a fisherman.”