She’d offered him prescription-strength seasickness medication, which he’d waved away. He didn’t tell her he’d purchased an over-the-counter generic brand from a nearby pharmacy last night. Apart from that time, he’d hardly laid eyes on her since that kiss in the galley late yesterday afternoon.
An urgent commotion broke out amongst the crew, catching his attention. He heard the words ‘main power’ and ‘power winch’ and a few sailor-worthy curses.
He half rose but he caught sight of Breanna sprinting across the deck already shaking her head as if she expected him to offer his expertise. ‘Olivia knows what she’s doing.’
Of course she did. Obviously a boat mechanic on top of everything else. Since he didn’t have a clue about boat mechanics and he’d only be in the way in addition to showcasing his lack of expertise, he leaned back again and watched the crew work feverishly to fix whatever the problem was.
And it would be fixed, he had no doubt. Wonder Woman was in charge. Interesting. He’d never been remotely involved with a take-charge woman.
The girls returned to their positions, problem obviously sorted. Seconds later the starter pistol cracked the air and they were off, tacking against the north-easterly wind. As they rounded the marker outside Sydney Heads, the huge and distinctive pink spinnaker sail unfurled, accelerating them to a fast rate of knots in a southerly direction down the coast.
Smooth sailing on a sparkling blue sea, fresh sea air. Roast quail and veg for dinner tonight. A single male in a boatful of gorgeous girls.
They settled in, the rhythmic motion almost hypnotic, and his mind wandered. He envied Olivia her focus and drive and dedication. She had her plan, she’d charted a path for her life and nothing was going to divert her from it.
Whereas he was drifting. Career-wise he’d been restless and unsettled for a while. He needed a change of direction, something to bring back the zing in life, to motivate him. Even if it had nothing to do with career, this sailing-cum-fundraising opportunity was a new experience. He gazed at the tilting horizon. Out here on the endless Pacific Ocean he felt as if he was on the brink of something new, different, exciting.
He’d not felt so alive in a long time.
* * *
He wished he were dead.
On deck and huddled into a spray jacket over his hoodie, Jett stared listlessly at the night’s stormy horizon lifting and sinking, up, down... Death was preferable to this washing machine on spin cycle. He swallowed several times as bile rose up his throat. Again. His quail dinner and worse—his pride—had disappeared overboard in spectacular fashion even before the change in weather had really shaken things up. He’d woken for his Wild watch and emerged from the sticky fume-filled cabin and into the fresh sea air and bam.
The watch was nearly over. Thirty more minutes. Then all he wanted was to be left alone to die in peace. A familiar figure emerged from below decks and began making her way towards him in the dimness. The sexy skipper. A hot tide of humiliation washed through him and he averted his eyes to the clouds scudding across the night sky. Neither wish was going to be granted, it seemed.
‘I can take over here.’ The voice of his mistletoe angel, barely audible in the bluster. Offering him the chance to slip into her still-warm bunk—the mysterious hot-bunking, she’d lured him in with—and grant his last wishes after all.
‘I’m fine.’ He huddled deeper into his hoodie, pulled it low over his sweat-damp brow to hide his malaise. ‘Go away, it’s not time yet.’
Unfazed by his curt demand, she sat down beside him. ‘The weather’s starting to ease up.’
He leaned away, super-aware that his Armani aftershave had been replaced by infinitely more unpleasant and pungent odours, and popped a peppermint in his mouth. ‘Could’ve fooled me.’
‘You’re doing great, Jett.’
Her tone wasn’t sympathetic, just matter-of-fact with an injection of humour. Even in his misery, he appreciated that. ‘Glad the skipper thinks so.’ He kept his gaze down, alongside him, and saw that her long legs were tightly encased in denim but those sexy feet of hers were still bare. If he could just be sure he wasn’t going to spew in front of her... He pressed his lips together. He didn’t think he could ever face her again if that happened.
‘Talking takes your mind off the queasiness.’
‘Yeah, right.’
‘Okay, go ahead, ask me something.’
‘Why bare feet?’
She wiggled her toes like a kid in sand. ‘For the grip when the deck’s slippery. And bare toes can twist around ropes—I’m pretty good at that.’