against me, and all I can think about is getting him inside me again. Pathetic. A warm, heady feeling makes my thighs quiver, and I never ever wanted to use the word quiver, like ever, but when it comes to Lincoln, he evokes reactions in me I never thought were possible. Until him.
Much to my discontent, after the fight, Lincoln leaves the bar and doesn’t return.
Mal stares at me, blinking slowly. “What was that all about?”
I glance from the door to Avie, who’s watching me as if he’s onto the fact that Lincoln was the guy from last night, to Mal’s curious gaze. “I— Uh.” I set the towel in my hand on the bar. “I have no clue.”
“Looks like McMoody has a thing for ya, J,” she says in passing, making her way toward Avie.
I roll my eyes. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I fight off a smile. Thing for me? Why am I high-fiving myself internally?
Running my fingers through my hair, I tell myself to forget about him. It doesn’t work. It’s like trying to resist the last piece of pie or for me, the last muffin. At about nine, I convince Avie to let me sneak out early for the night because I’m tired. Seems like an excellent excuse. My problem? I have no plan for finding him. No phone number for him, and I don’t even know where he went from the bar earlier. All I know is that I need to find him.
Stepping out of the bar, I yank the hood of my sweatshirt up and begin walking aimlessly. I don’t go home. I walk a path cut by the moon and find myself at the marina. Along the wooden planks rising and falling with the waves, I keep moving until I see his boat nestled in between two other fishing boats.
My heart thumps wildly in my chest, my muscles twitchy with each step when I realize there’s a light on in the cabin. I want to turn back, but my feet don’t get the message, and I keep going. I have a thought. I shouldn’t be here, but something pulls me in the direction of the boat. It’s as if I have no control over it.
Fat raindrops hit the hood of my sweatshirt with what sounds like pings, and the only other noise I hear over my own breathing is the slap of my shoes against the planks. Once I’m at the boat, I stand near the stern but still on the dock, wondering what I do next.
My feet brought me here, but my mind has no clue what to make of this.
And then I think, dude, I have no clue if it’s even him on the boat. What if it’s Bear? What if it’s not even their boat?
Craning my neck back, I check the side again to be sure it’s his boat.
Amphitrite.
Okay, so a little relief, but not as much as I was hoping for. Also, I think I kinked my neck. Damn it. I clear my throat. Be brave.
Taking a step onto the boat, my entire body trembles with anticipation of what I might find. If he’s here, what will he say to me being on the boat? Will he be mad I followed him? Will he tell me to leave? Knowing this guy, he’ll probably just look at me with that cryptic gaze and expect me to know what the hell he means.
Here’s the problem. While I think I’m going to step onto the boat and thank him for sticking up for me, it doesn’t happen that way.
Nope.
Just wait.
With that shaky step, I misjudge how far the boat is from the dock, or the fact that I’m on unstable ground and stepping onto a floating boat, but whatever. The reality here is that I misjudged and land myself in the frigid waters below.
I scream the instant I hit the water, both from shock that I missed the step and the temperature of the water. While I try not to drown, I hear a noise, maybe a door slamming open as I fight to reach for the piling next to me. Between trying not to swallow any saltwater and not drown, I manage to see a dark figure at the stern shining a flashlight in my eyes.
“Journey?” The figure gasps. “Is that you?”
Dark indigo water rushes around me. My throbbing legs struggle to keep me afloat, weighted by my clothes and boots. In the movies, drowning is dramatic. In