She juts her chin up, shifting so her breasts graze my chest, searing my skin through the layers I have on. “Would’ve been better than waking up alone.”
Her words pick at something in my chest, thorns wrapping around my heart and pushing in until the organ begins to compress beneath the pressure.
Moving back, I let out a shaky breath, the sea air mixing with her floral perfume and making me nauseous.
My jaw tics, and I pick up the pliers, shoving them in her direction. Her eyebrows shoot into her hairline as she takes the tool from me, hesitant but willing.
“You want to pass the time?” I ask, needing to get this outing back on track. I reach into the pot and pull out a crustacean. “Can’t get on a lobster boat without doing a little lobstering.”
Chapter 22
My stomach churns as I look down at the trap filled with lobsters. I tighten my hold around the tool Lincoln just handed me, and my eyes bounce from it and then back to him. He’s focused while he inspects each catch, before either throwing it in the hole of a large white box built into the center of the deck, or tossing them overboard back to sea.
“I...” My voice catches on the sudden nerves rising through my throat.
The sensations I’ve felt since coming aboard are strange, to say the least. I thought that after last night, the tension that thickens the air and wraps around me whenever Lincoln’s near would dissipate. But if anything, it’s gotten worse, because now it almost feels as if I should know him. As if I gave him more than I intended—more than just my body.
“I don’t know anything about lobstering,” I finally force out, lifting the tool he gave me. “What even is this?”
He smirks, glancing at me and back to the crustacean in his hand. “It’s a measuring tool. They have to be a certain length to stay legal. If they aren’t—” He pauses while he uses his own tool and places it on top of the lobster, running it from the head down to the tail, and then grabbing a thick band from the side of the box and wrapping the claws before dropping it in the hole. “They aren’t legal and we throw them back.”
I lean over, peering inside the box. “And what’s down there?”
His eyes spark, almost as if he’s amused by my questions. It’s a different look than I’m used to getting from him and something that feels a lot like hope flares to life in the center of my chest.
“That’s where the lobsters go.”
I roll my eyes. “Obviously.”
He sighs, measuring out another and shaking his head slightly before tossing it back to sea. “It’s a saltwater tank. Keeps them alive until we make it back to shore.” He reaches into the yellow wire trap and pulls out another.
My insides tighten as I watch him. There’s something attractive about a man who has a passion for his work, and while Lincoln doesn’t seem to jump in joy over what he does, it still bleeds from his pores. Etched into his DNA like tattoos on his soul.
“You see this?” he asks, nodding his head toward the lobster sitting in the shallow pan. He points toward the tail where there’s a piece missing.
“A V-notch,” I say. My head snaps back as soon as I do, confusion sparking through my middle and squeezing.
His brows shoot to his hairline. “Yeah. How do you know that?”
“I have…” I shake my head. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” he replies.
My gut rolls, a sharp pain splitting behind my eyes. My hand reaches up to press against the sudden ache. “I probably read it somewhere when I was trying to learn about lobstering. You know… for the case.”
He tilts his head to the side. “Must have.”
“What’s it mean?” I point toward the tail.
“It means this one’s a breeder, and we have to throw her back.” His eyes are scanning me, a cautious edge to his gaze.
I don’t reply, too busy rubbing at the receding throbbing in my head. When it’s finally at a manageable level, I go back to watching Lincoln work.
It’s almost hypnotic in a way, and as I stare at him, my mind wanders back to Alta May—the first body—wondering how she got caught up in the lines so easily.
Wondering whether it’s coincidence that two out of the three bodies were found near or in Lincoln’s traps.
I look out over the water, my gaze snagging on the darkened tower in the distance. The place where the third body was found.
“Are you the only traps set this close to the lighthouse?”
Lincoln’s hands pause. “I am,” he says.
“How do you know for sure?”
He sighs, setting down his measuring tool and walking over to the side, rolling up his sleeves and dipping his hands into a basin of water. “Are you cold?” he asks. “This is heated water if you want to warm your hands up.”
I shake my head, even though I am. But I don’t want to lose my train of thought.
“You can tell by the buoys,” he continues. “All of the ones that are red, black, and white are my fath—” He clears his throat. “Mine.”
I walk closer to the lip of the boat, leaning over slightly to stare out. “You color code them?”
“Yeah, and display them on the side of the boat.”
My chest pulls tight. “So people would know these were your traps specifically just by the colors?”
“They would,” he responds slowly.
“Hmm.” Anticipation lights up my nerve endings; a type of humming that buzzes just beneath my veins. It’s a familiar feeling—one that always happens when my intuition is prodding me to keep on this path.
Something here is important, and I didn’t rise through the ranks as quickly as I did by not listening to my gut.
This is my favorite part of the job—solving puzzles. Finding square pegs and figuring out how they fit in seemingly round holes.
Lincoln wipes his hands off on a towel hanging next to the water basin. “You hungry?”
He moves to walk inside, and I follow, my gaze sweeping over the water one last time, the stillness of the sea sending a shiver down my spine.
I move down the steps and into the small interior, pausing by the kitchenette when I notice Lincoln already back by the bed, stripping off his orange jumpsuit.
My heart jumps into my throat.
He glances up at me. “What?”
I swallow, trying to force some saliva into my suddenly dry mouth. “Nothing.”
His mouth twitches, as if he knows I’m a liar. Like he can see straight through me and knows how he affects me, even though I wish with everything in me that he didn’t.
“You should really wear a life jacket when we’re out there,” he says as he takes off his beanie and runs his hand through his messy locks.
“You don’t wear one.”
“I’m seasoned,” he replies as he walks through the small living area toward me.
“Well, maybe I like to live dangerously,” I grin.
He steps around me, his torso barely brushing against mine, and my heart stutters.
“Well, maybe I don’t want you to drown and become another body floating in the water.”
“Who knew you were such a bleeding heart?” I joke.
His lips press together, his fingers wrapped around the fridge handle. “If you die then they’ll make me a suspect again, and I’d rather not have to deal with idiots for longer than necessary.”
Something heavy drops into my gut. “Wow, Lincoln. It’s so nice to know you care.”
He smirks, opening the door and pulling out a bottled water.
I watch in silence, my teeth chewing at the inside of my cheek as his fingers meticulously wrap around the edges of the lid and twist to unscrew the top. He brings the bottle to his lips, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows, and I clench my thighs, heat spreading through me and settling between my legs, making my core pulse with need.
He lowers the drink, his eyes zoning in on where I’m gawking.
“Enjoying the show?” he asks.
I
inhale a sharp breath, breaking my stare. “We need some ground rules.”
He cocks his head. “Rules?”
“Yeah.” I wave my hand in the space between us. “We will keep at least five feet between us at all times.”
“Okay.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “And?”
“And… I need us to stay professional. No ‘killer’ nicknames, which I hate by the way.” I narrow my gaze. “And no more talking about our temporary lapse in judgment from last night.”
His smirk grows, his hand brushing through the jet-black strands of his hair.
My stomach flips.
He steps closer, and I back up a space. “I’m serious, Lincoln. Five feet.”
“Fine.” He sets his bottle down on the counter. “Wouldn’t want to piss off your partner anymore, anyway.”
My forehead scrunches. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Lincoln’s shoulder lifts. “He didn’t seem to like knowing you were with me last night.”
“He shouldn’t even know, period,” I snap. “If it weren’t for you and your gigantic mouth.”
His arms cross against his chest. “I didn’t hear any complaints about my mouth last night.”
I groan, throwing my hands into the air. “This was a terrible idea.”
“What was?”
“Coming out here with you!” My heart slams against my ribs as he takes another step toward me. I move back again. “Here you go, already breaking the rules.”
He chuckles, continuing his stride until he’s right in front of me. I twist until my back presses against the counter, the lip of it biting into my skin, my stomach somersaulting when he presses into my space.
My hands reach behind me, my fingers gripping the countertop so tightly I’m afraid they’ll bruise.
“Technically,” he says, his tongue swiping across his bottom lip. “I didn’t agree to them.”
My heartbeat whooshes through my ears, my fingers trembling as they move to press against his chest, feeling his heavy breaths underneath my hands.
I shove, and he allows the movement.
His palms fly into the air. “I agree to your ‘rules.’ They work better for me, anyway.”
I nod my head, ignoring the way my insides flutter, and I run my palm down the front of my sweater. “Is it common knowledge that you go to the lighthouse?” I ask.
“What is with the twenty questions?” He groans. “Is this how you’ll be the whole trip?”
“I’m just wondering what the odds are of two bodies being near your traps, and the other being somewhere that you frequent.”
His gaze grows hazy as he stares at the empty space behind my head. “I have history with the lighthouse, yeah,” he bites out.
I knew it.
“What kind of history?”
His jaw tenses. “The ‘none of your fucking business’ kind.”
My fingers fly to the bridge of my nose, pinching the skin to try and calm the irritation that surges through my veins. “Listen, I’m not asking for personal pleasure, Lincoln. I’m trying to piece something together. I just... do you have anyone that would do this to you?”
“Do what?”
“Frame you for murder.”
Chapter 23
I blink at Sloane, my throat tickling with the effort it takes not to laugh in her face.
“The only person on Skelm Island framing me for anything so far has been you, killer.”
Her little nostrils flare at my blatant disregard for yet another rule, and it floods my chest with something warm and bright. Ignoring the dirty look she gives, I spin on my heel and reach to a cabinet above the stove, pulling out a small cast-iron skillet and a loaf of bread.
I can almost hear her eyes roll. “I wasn’t framing you, you... jerk. Questioning you was just me doing my job.”
My lips twitch as I get to work preheating the skillet and buttering one side of each slice of bread. “And what was last night?”
“A serious lapse in judgment, like I’ve said. But we aren’t discussing last night.”
From my peripheral, I watch her cross the tiny cabin, perching on the edge of the bed. Holding my hand over the pan to ensure it’s warm, I drop the first slice of bread and then the second, reaching into the fridge while it cooks to grab mayonnaise and cheese.
“In any case, can you seriously tell me you don’t have any enemies in town who might want to pin a crime on you? Nobody in like a secret lobstering society you’ve pissed off in the past, no one waiting for the chance to take you down?”
Smoothing a hand along my jaw as the sandwich cooks, I give my head a little shake, thinking about what she said after she’d been down to Petey’s.
How Isa talked about me like I’m some sort of hero to this town, even though it couldn’t be further from the truth.
But, I suppose when the environment itself is bleak, even shit starts to look shiny.
“There isn’t a secret lobstering society,” I say after a moment, giving her a half answer. It’s not secret, anyway. “And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, detective, but I don’t exactly have the free time for enemies.”
“You seemed to have plenty of time to make me one,” she mutters, her voice just barely audible over the sizzle of the sandwich as I flip it to brown the other side. Her palm smacks against her leg, and she sighs. “There has to be something. One murder is a coincidence, but three? We’re clearly missing something.”
My stomach twists, the word murder grating on my nerves for the first time in nearly two decades.
Swallowing down the emotion in my throat, I plate the first sandwich and bring it over to her, setting it on the mattress beside her thigh. She blinks at the food, then back at me.
“What if I’m lactose intolerant? How am I supposed to eat that?”
“Should’ve thought about that before you decided you needed to come out on this trip with me, then.”
She waits until I’ve finished my own, her eyes burning through the back of my skull as I turn, leaning against the kitchenette and digging in. Tentatively, she takes a bite, her face softening and eyes widening as the flavors meet her tongue.
A moan works its way from her throat, scraping deliciously over my flesh. My dick pulses heavily, and she covers her mouth with one hand, trying to hide the sexy sound in a cough.
“I wasn’t expecting it to be that good,” she says, crimson crawling up her cheeks.
I smirk, but don’t say anything else. We both know what I’m thinking.
We eat the rest of our sandwiches in tense silence, both of us adhering to the rules of professionalism, despite the way our bodies clearly yearn for another.
I swear, I don’t mean to look, but I can plainly make out the hardened peaks of her breasts as they pucker in her sweater, and my mouth almost waters at the memory of how they felt on my tongue.
Clearing my throat, I move to dump my plate in the trash receptacle, the faint crackling sound of a radio catching my attention. Our gazes shift toward the sound, the CB radio sitting on a shelf above the bed flaring to life.
“What’s that?” Sloane asks, twisting her neck to look.
Tension threads through my muscles, pulling each one tight until a sharp ache sluices through me, as if it’s severing tendons from tissue.
“I don’t know,” I say, taking a step forward, my eyes focused on the green glow of the radio display. “The antenna on that box is broken; it’s not supposed to be able to pick up any sound from passing boats.”
“Passing boats? I thought you were the only one fishing in this area.”
“I am. But I’m not the only lobsterman off the coast of Maine.”
Kneeling on the bed, hyperaware of the fact that I was doing this exact thing for very different reasons just twenty-four hours ago, I reach forward and pull the mic free, waiting a beat to see if the sound occurs again.
The radio is old, and hasn’t worked since the night my father found me and Morgan Jensen playing with it when we s
towed away on his trip.
He’d broken it then, ensuring we weren’t tempted to come back out, and it’s sat unused on that shelf ever since.
My heart rages against my chest, angry and volatile. When no other sound comes, I slump down, my shoulders relaxing just slightly. “Must be the wind or something.”
Sloane doesn’t reply, but I can feel the weight of her stare as I push off from the bed, wringing my hands together.
“Anyway,” I say, forcing nonchalance into my tone even though my entire body is still on edge. “You’d better get some sleep. The first four a.m. haul is always the hardest.”
“The what?” Sloane hops up, reaching out to grab my arm and keep me from turning. “Wait a second, Lincoln. I need you to talk to me. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Every time I look at you, it feels like I have.
I shrug from her grip. “Just a little weirded out by the radio thing, is all. Don’t worry about it.”
She hesitates, letting her hand fall. “Well, now I’m weirded out.”
Shaking my head, I walk back over to where I discarded my beanie, pulling it down over my head. “Get some sleep, Sloane.”
“But what about—”
“Take the bed, I’ll be up on the deck.”
Pushing through the door, I pull it shut behind me and head back up. Monet greets me, nuzzling my thigh as I scan the horizon, that thick and eerie feeling coating my bones.
Fog rolls over the upset water, the two refusing to ever collide but always coexisting, and then I walk over to the steering shelter and fire up the working CB radio, pulling the mic free and adjusting the dial until a familiar hum filters through.
“Gabe,” I say, releasing the talk button to wait for him to come on. I kill the engine and drop anchor for the night while I wait.
“Yo.” His voice buzzes over the airwaves, slightly distorted by white noise. “Is Lincoln Porter radioing me while he’s busy, and with a girl, no less? Color me shocked. Mad you didn’t invite me to your little soiree?”
I roll my eyes, leaning against the wall. “No, dumbass. Not even a little.” I pause, his chuckle coming through, and then continue. “You ever hear anything else from Thomas or his guys after the incident back in the spring?”
Be Still My Heart: A Romantic Suspense Page 15