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)
My hand goes to his collarbone, then up to the side of his neck, where my fingers find the warm skin above his collar. He pulls me into him and it’s rough. A low sound rumbles in his chest.
My body registers the length of him before my brain does—solid, warm, all hard muscles—pressed against me.
Finn kisses me so thoroughly, I have a vague, odd thought that I don’t know if I’ve ever been truly kissed before.
His hand at my nape tightens a fraction, and I think in this very moment if he picked me up and carried me belowdecks to his cabin, I wouldn’t fight him on it.
I’m not in charge of my limbs.
I’m not in charge of my common sense.
I’m without any control whatsoever.
But he pulls back, just enough to look at my face. His mouth is half an inch from mine, I feel his warm breath, watch as his eyes search mine.
His mouth curves into a half smile. “Okay.”
The word comes out somewhat rough.
“Okay,” I murmur, a repeat in tone and depth.
A long beat fraught with tension.
“That was—”
“I know.”
“I wasn’t expecting—”
“I know.”
I take half a step back and the cold slaps the cheek where his hand had been. I touch the spot briefly with my own fingers, considering the loss.
Finn looks at me with an expression I can’t fully read except that he’s unmistakably pleased. As if he’s gotten exactly the response from me he’d hoped to get.
And he’s not entirely hiding it.
“I should get you home,” he says.
“Yes.”
Finn locks up his boat and guides me back to his car, holding my hand the entire time. The drive home is quiet. He plays a classic rock station and quietly hums under his breath while I watch the city lights move past. I don’t look at him, most certainly not the hand so casually resting on top of the wheel. If I look at that hand, I’ll think too much about how it felt on the back of my neck and my composure is too fragile to risk fracture.
At my house, Finn walks me to my front door. I unlock the keypad and push the door open before turning to face him. I know if he kisses me like he did on the boat, there’s a very real threat I’ll invite him in.
To my surprise, he’s moved back a step and has his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat.
“I had a really nice time,” I say.
His eyes crinkle. “So did I.”
“I’m not going to ask you in tonight.”
“That’s good, because I wouldn’t come in if you asked.”
I grin at him. “I know. I mean… I just know that about you.”
Finn smiles, and it’s so disarmingly handsome and boyish, I want to grab him to me.
“Good night, Josie,” he says, taking a step back.
“Good night, Finn.”
I move through the open door as he waits, watching to make sure I get in safe. Only after I’ve locked the door from the inside do I see him returning to his Range Rover.
A few seconds later, I hear his car start up, then pull away.
I stand in my dark entryway with my back against the door for a long time. My coat is still on, the taste of wine and his mouth still on my lips. My body’s humming and somewhere underneath it all, the analyst part of me is making notes.
The most important factor I zero in on isn’t the lovely dinner, the open conversation, the fascinating man.
It’s the fact that I didn’t think about Voronin at all after that first mention, and I most certainly wasn’t thinking about it as he drove away.
And right now, the only thing I’m wondering is when he’ll kiss me again.
CHAPTER 7
Finn
The Quartermaster sits low at her slip with the tide running out underneath her. Connie has her boots on my chart table again.
“Off,” I growl, giving them an elbow.
“So grumpy,” she mutters and drops them to the floor with a thud.
“So impolite,” I shoot back.
Marcus ignores both of us, his head bent over patrol routes as he chews on the end of a pencil.
The cabin is warm from the space heater, and the windows are starting to fog at the edges. Outside, the October light is fading fast and without apology. Marcus has his thermos of coffee and a full pot he just prepared on the small galley stove.
“Three weeks from Tuesday,” Marcus says, tapping his index finger on the table. “Pick up at Steveston.”
“Is this the same broker who bought the de Hooch?” Connie asks, propping an elbow on the table and resting her chin in the palm of her hand.
“Yeah,” I say, tracing a finger from Steveston down through the islands toward Walt Brown’s dock. “He was very happy with our work.” I look to Marcus. “What’s the crossing window?”
He takes a sip of coffee from his tumbler. “Coast Guard cutter rotation gives us a gap between oh-two-fifteen and oh-four-forty on a Wednesday morning. We pick up at midnight on the Canadian side, run dark down the strait, hand off at Walt’s by oh-five hundred.”