Page 18 of Weathering The Storm

“Yeah, well, I don’t give a shit.Ilike you.” His thumbs twitch against my palm and wrist, his lips pressing together. “I like you healthy, not septic.”

He looks away, lifting the gauze and applying butterfly bandages with trembling fingers to bring the edges of the cut together.

And I’m trembling, too. Not because my palm is on fire, but because my heart is.

“I may bleed easy, but I’m pretty hardy. You don’t have to worry about me.”

He rubs antibiotic ointment over the wound and places another fresh pad of gauze there, carefully dressing my hand with self-adhesive wrap. “You can’t talk me out of worrying about you. All of you. It’s my job.”

I nod. Swallow. But he’s touching me and saying things like“I like you,”and I’m not operating on full brain-power. There’s something thick and tangible in the space between us, and I can taste it when I breathe in. Hotter and sweeter than the salty ocean air.

“Do you worry about everyone like this?” I murmur.

He tilts his head up for a moment, reading me. Wondering if he heard me right.

I can’t bring myself to repeat the question, and I’m sure it’s going to die unanswered when he finally responds. One word, whispered.

“No.”

He cuts off the end of the wrap, securing it in place. Still cupping my hand. I wonder if he’d be the first to move if I failed to.

He wasn’t the first one to move away in the galley, when I was sprawled over his chest, between his spread legs. He held onto me then, too. Keeping me safe.

The thought hits me like a rogue wave, and suddenly I’m bobbing around in four years’ worth of memories. Questioning whether I’ve spent all this time talking myself into reality… or out of it.

His lips are fuckinginchesaway and I want them more than I ever have, which is a damn high bar. But what if I was right all along?

What if he worries about me more because he thinks of me as a best friend, as a brother? What if I ruin that by leaning in and closing the space between us, doing something I can’t take back?

We might’ve been able to move past what happened a week ago, but that was an accident. There is nothing accidental about the way I want to kiss him right now. No way I could possibly blame it on the sea this time.

Nick unfurls his fingers from my hand, severing the connection. His Adam’s apple bobs. “Let me know if you and Perry need help with the hydraulics.”

“Yes, sir,” I agree, heading to the door.

But as I climb down the stairs, the onlywhat ifleft in my mind iswhat if I went for it?

Chapter 5

Nick

Two hours later, we’ve all had our hands in the hauler and have nothing to show for it but raw knuckles.

We’d worked through everything we could check externally. Traced every line, tightened every fitting, checked the filter, and ran the unit under no load. The needle on the pressure gauge still dropped, and the whine came back.

Whatever is failing is failing internally, invisible without pulling the whole thing apart and likely replacing the pump entirely. We’re getting maybe two thirds of the output we need, and if we keep pushing it, new issues will start popping up like heads on a hydra.

We don’t have the parts to fix the hauler, and even if we did, it’s not a repair anyone wants to make on deck while warring with these swells. I get on the radio, put a call through to a mechanic in Dutch Harbor, and run straight in.

It sucks to lose three-plus days of the season—one day of travel each way, on top of however long it takes for the repair itself. But on the bright side, at least we’re not going in empty handed.

Opening week has been good to us. The total count comes in at just under 23,000 pounds of crab when we cash in at the port. The crew gets an early payday, they’re free to decompress at the bar, and everyone gets a few extra hours of sleep so we can hit the new hotspot hard when we head back out.

God knows I could use the rest.

I’m looking forward to having the boat to myself for most of the evening while the crew’s out at Amalie’s. Not that my plans are much different. When they’re getting ready to terrorize the pub, I go up to the bridge, shower, and pour myself a generous glass of the “special occasion” brandy I keep in my dresser.

The special occasion being that I’d love to get drunk enough to forget the feeling of Seth’s hand in mine. The way he looked at me while I wrapped it.