ONE
Cole
There’san old fishing proverb that says once the ocean gets a taste of you, you’ll never be safe off land again. Some fishermen were so afraid that they refused to learn how to swim. At least, according to my brother, Seb.
I’m as superstitious as the next fisherman, which is a hell of a lot, but I think that one’s bullshit.
The ocean has had a taste of all of us, and we taunt her every year. When our time is up, it doesn’t matter where we are, she’ll find us in the end—if not by drowning, or shipwreck, then at the bottom of a bottle, the end of a needle, or death by our own hand.
Morgan’s intimidating frame casts a long shadow across the end of the dock. With his back to me, and his fists clenched at his sides, he looks more like he wants to start a fight with the horizon than go crab fishing.
Wind licks at the wavy tufts of his dark brown hair, and the scent of sea salt and petrichor drifts my way on the current of his cologne. October has some of the best weather in Seattle, one last warm caress before the long dark begins, a fond farewell before our trek to Alaska.
“Hey, babe. We’re ready to cast off.”
“It still doesn’t feel right,” Morgan says without turning.
He’s been saying that for the last few days, waking up in a panic with my name on his lips. I don’t blame him.
Last year’s bad luck streak would be nightmare fodder for anyone, let alone my husband. A snapped rope almost severed my head from my neck; falling ice gave me a concussion, and Morgan’s quick reflexes spared me from the certain death of being crushed between two 800-pound crab traps. They don’t call it one of the nation’s deadliest occupations for nothing.
But that won’t stop me.
The Bering Sea has always been a man-eater. I’ve lost enough friends and family to know how fragile life can be. I’ve gotten off theBriar Anteros, kissed the dock, and vowed never to go out again, only to yearn for it.
I wrap my arms around Morgan and hug him from behind. “I’ll be okay.”
He nuzzles his cheek against mine, stubble raising goosebumps across my skin. “But what if you’re not?”
“Danger’s always been part of the deal.”
He turns, flashing troubled aquamarine eyes illuminated in the sunlight like sea glass. “I don’t want to lose you.”
“You won’t. You always keep me safe.”
He hugs me, tight and all-encompassing, like he already feels me slipping through his fingers. “Keeping you safe is a full-time job, Sunshine. When will I fish?” He sneaks his hands into my back pockets and squeezes my ass until I rise onto the balls of my feet.
My body submits to him automatically. I may have caught up to him in height and strength, but he’ll always be my brother’s best friend, willing to put me in my place and take me over his knee, loving me even when I’m weak.
“Please, Cole. Stay home, keep our bed warm. Just for this year.”
“Yeah, sure. I’ll sit back on land and let my family, my entire world, go out there without me. Not a chance.”
“Finn’s family. If you stay home to hang out with him, he’ll be ecstatic.”
“I love that kid, but no. I go where you go. If the ship goes down, I’m going down with you. That’s the rule.”
He steps back, massaging his temples. “That’s your rule, a stupid rule.”
“You know I’m right, though.” I hook my finger in his belt loop and tug him back to me. “Working shorthanded is dangerous too. Alejo is a good kid, but you can’t count on him to pick up my slack when you still have to look out for him.”
He searches my gaze, exhales a small growl through clenched teeth, and leaves me facing the Ballard Locks that protect Lake Union from the tide. Heavy footsteps rumble on the weathered beams with the rhythm of his long stride. The people on the crowded dock scatter like gulls, carving a path for me to follow.
I can’t help but shamelessly map the contours of his ass as he grips the rail and hoists himself onto the deck of theBriar Anteros. I’ve had a crush on my husband since we were teenagers.
TheBriarhas been in my family since she was christened. I’m the spare heir to a family business built by brine and grit over generations. I was born on that boat. My mother died on that boat. Morgan and I fell in love and had our wedding there too. But when I climb onto the deck after him, the subtle sway beneath my feet fills me with foreboding instead of familiarity, as if somewhere a countdown started. The ocean is hungry, and the hundred-foot ship won’t be enough to protect me.
“Don’t tell me you’re fighting already?” Lawrence asks, tattoos on his forearms flexing as he coils a length of rope and ties it off, then lassos his blond hair into a half bun. “At least wait until we leave the bay.”