“Can I give him your phone number?” Bobbie had asked.
Lace had considered that for about two seconds.
“Nope. I’m not looking for a phone buddy. If this Sothard-paragon can’t conjure the stones to see me face-to-face, I’ll be able to write him off with few regrets.”
Dammit.That was a lie. Lace had already been spinning up her aspirations.
“Gotcha,” Bobbie had replied, seemingly not in the least bit put off, and not sensing Lace’s turmoil.
Bobbie had some pretty overblown faith in the Sothard, do-gooder-genes, which was great for her, but Lace needed there to be at least a modicum of assurances to put herself completely out there.
It had been a hell of a long time since she’d caught anybody’s attention in a boy-meets-girl kind of way.
In high school she’d had a few boyfriends, or fuck-buddies as the kids liked to say these days. But in college, since her grandparents were putting her through on their hard-earned dime, Lace had determined to be all business. She’d hit the books hard.
Still, she hadn’t exactly been a saint, enjoying the occasional hook-up.
What therehadn’t been, was a guy who’d tickled her fancy well enough to take her away from her studies.
And now, because of her health situation, her fancy might remainuntickledfor eternity.
Fuck.
Thathadn’t been on her future-cast.
Maybe she should have tried a little harder after college to find…
Nah.That was a pipe dream that couldn’t have happened.
When she’d joined NOAA, and been assigned to various fishing boats across the eastern seaboard, it had by definition meant she wasn’t exactly a woman the crew liked to chum around with. Most of them saw her as a nosy “buttinski”, spying on them for the government. The rest were misogynistic assholes who still believed in the old adage that women at sea were bad luck.
Add to that, the lovely sight she made in her voluminous yellow bibs, and…
Nope.
Not the stuff that fantasies were exactly made of.
Even when she’d tried to talk to a few of the more seasoned guys who were a bit open; telling them that her job actually helped them from overfishing certain areas and pinpointing where the most effective catches could be hauled in, they still didn’t quite trust her.
Those salt-of-the-earth types didn’t like anything that smacked of Big Brother.
The strictures she was used to seeing after fifteen years in the field, however? Theywereslowly changing.
The younger generation of fishermen coming up were well aware, and not closing their eyes to, their steadily diminishingcatchesorthe rising water temperatures that were changing fish migration patterns. Some of them took her seriously and actually came of their own volition to pick her brains for information. Others, unfortunately—the ones who were taught at their family’s knees—tended to keep their blinders firmly in place, rather than make waves within the ranks.
Waves.
Uh, huh. Her brain looped away from that painful subject, and fastened on sea conditions. She hoped the waves tomorrow weren’t killer.
She could use a nice, calm day.
But itwashurricane season, and there was always something churning up the waters off the east coast. Luckily, so far, the biggest storms of the year had passed well out to sea, but that didn’t mean the boats she worked on didn’t feel the residual effects.
The swells they encountered could still be damned impressive.
The challenge for Lace, moving forward, was going to be feeling good enough to continue working.
Sure, her bosses in Orono, who knew of her diagnosis and treatments, had told her she could navigate a desk for as long as she needed, but that wasn’t where Lace’s heart lay. Her whole life had been tempered, one way or another, by the sea, and that’s where she wanted to remain.