Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 86450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
“And what did you do when you came to Seattle?”
He looks at me again, long enough for his eyes to lock onto mine. “I did things that landed me in prison. I know you know that much.”
I nod. “But you turned it around, right?”
“I like to think so,” he says with a smirk.
“A fine art gallery owner. It’s impressive.”
“It pays the bills,” he replies.
“And what exactly does a gallery owner do on a daily basis?”
We chat about the intricacies of art intersecting with business, and it’s clear to me that he’s not overly passionate about the art itself. Finn seems to be all about the business of it, all bottom-line dollar and profit margins.
The conversation carries us all the way to Elliott Bay Marina with its long docks running out into the dark water and the Space Needle visible on the eastern horizon. Finn parks and comes around to my side, opening the door and holding out his hand to help me alight. I’m assaulted by the smell of salt water and the soft creak of dock lines as he walks me through the security gate.
The boats in this portion of the marina are for the serious yachters… the people who put money into their passion. I find my hand tucked back into the crook of his elbow as he leads me along a long dock, stopping at a slip about two-thirds of the way down.
The boat is magnificent, at least fifty feet long and lit up like a Christmas tree. It’s dark blue, low and sleek, with cream upholstery I can see through the windows and wood trim that glows like honey in the dock lights. There are brass details everywhere.
I don’t know boats, but I know this is the kind that costs more than my house.
My eyes catch on the name in elegant cream lettering.
Catherine.
“This boat, Finn,” I breathe as he leads me to the boarding ramp. “It’s beautiful.”
“Yeah,” he says with a puff of pride. “I’d happily sell my house and just live here if I could.”
“And why don’t you?” I ask.
He lifts a shoulder. “Doesn’t seem… practical, I guess. But one day, when I retire. It’s going to be me and the water.”
We step onto the teak deck with a table set for two and a large heat lamp already glowing. There’s a silver bucket with a bottle of wine chilling and I’m stunned when a man emerges from the cabin. Mid-forties, dark hair, kind eyes, and clearly a chef as evidenced by his white coat.
“Daniel,” Finn says. “This is Josie.”
“Pleasure,” I say as the man offers a small bow.
“Likewise.” He sweeps a hand at the table. “I have the wine you requested, and I’ll have the first course up in about twenty minutes.”
“Thank you,” Finn says, and Daniel disappears back belowdecks.
“A chef, huh?” I ask, clearly impressed with his efforts.
Finn moves the wine, which has already been uncorked, and pours two glasses. “Well, I only have one chance to impress you into a second date.”
“How do you know you want a second date?” I ask, accepting the wine. “You don’t even know me.”
“I know enough,” he says, lifting his glass. “Here’s to not getting shot at tonight.”
I smile at him over the rim. “I’ll drink to that.”
The wine is excellent and we take our seats at the table. There’s a basket of warm bread and sweet, soft butter. The city lights dapple the water with sparkled color and the boat softly rocks. It’s in the low fifties but the heat lamp works so well, we drape our coats over the backs of our chairs. I know this date has just started, but I’m enjoying it way too much.
“Tell me a little about your background,” Finn says, bracing one arm on the table, the other holding his wine goblet on his thigh.
“Hmm, let’s see.” I take a sip of my wine. “My dad was in the Marine Corps, so I had a typical military brat life moving around the world.”
“What did he do?”
“Intelligence.”
“You took after him,” he says thoughtfully.
I nod, because yeah… he influenced my career. “Except for the marine part. I went to school at UW for computer engineering, did my master’s in cybersecurity at Carnegie Mellon. Then I was recruited by the NSA.”
Finn’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, but I also see respect there. “I get the feeling you’re not the type of woman who does anything half-assed.”
“I was raised by Bill McAdams,” I say, lifting my chin. “Of course not.”
“And your mom?” he asks, his voice soft as if he knows she’s not in the picture.
“She died a few years ago, breast cancer. My dad just moved here to Seattle a few months ago to be near me.”
Finn nods, as if this all makes sense with what he’s gleaned so far about my past. “And how did you get from the NSA to Jameson?”