A gaggle of tourists on the street behind her hooted with laughter over some shared joke, and Jordan cringed. The sound of the crowds grated on her nerves now, where once their noise filled her with optimism and drive. With another despondent sigh, she beeped her key card at the marina’s chain-link gate and made her way down the ramp toward her boat.
The thick, sun-bleached planks of the pier reflected the mid-day warmth like a mirror, so much that Jordan felt the sun even though her ball cap was pulled down snugly over her eyes. The Coriolis shone like a white star, rocking gently in its moorings, sending up the soothing music of the docks: the slap-slap of waves below the pier, the tinkling of stays against aluminum masts.
Jordan laid a hand on her boat’s snubby little bowsprit and patted it affectionately. “Hey, old girl.”
To her surprise, the boat talked back in a comically high, squeaky voice. “Hey, sailor-girl! Let me take you for a ride!”
A moment later the forward hatch squealed on its hinges and Storm popped up like a gopher emerging from its hole. He grinned at her and made his ears wiggle without using his hands—a talent Jordan had always envied, for no reason she could name—and for just a moment, all her worries fell away. She laughed at her cousin and hurried over to the ladder, then climbed onto the schooner’s deck.
Storm Caines pulled himself up out of the hatch, then reached back inside. Somebody below—Emily, Jordan assumed—handed him a bucket full of sanding and polishing tools, which he set beside the hatch before throwing his arms around Jordan in greeting.
Jordan hugged him back with a fierce, grateful grip. Storm was more than just her cousin—though by Jordan’s accounting, that was important enough. There was nothing in the world more important to her than her large, loving family. Not even sailing took precedence. But she and Storm had always been especially close. They were the same age, for one thing—their birth dates were just a few days apart, and growing up, they had always held joint birthday parties, sharing the special day—and the doting of their families—without any qualms. They’d learned how to sail together, too, under the instruction of their aunt Susan. Some of Jordan’s best memories were of those early days when sailing was still brand-new to her, learning to work the lines on Aunt Susan’s zippy little Dash with Storm by her side. As much as Jordan loved her three brothers—especially her twin, Carter—the bond she had with Storm was just as great.
Storm pulled back from her embrace, searching her face. The harbor breeze had been at his dark brown hair, which was never very tidy to begin with, and his rumpled appearance and tall frame, combined with his quizzical expression, made him look like a heron stalking the tideline for some tidbit to stab.
“What’s the matter?” Storm asked.
“Nothing.”
“Oh, don’t give me that ‘nothing’ crap. Something’s on your mind. I can tell.”
Emily’s thin, tanned arms emerged from the forward hatch and she hauled herself up to the deck. Her usual bright greeting of “Hi—i!” cut off more abruptly than it usually did. She, too, fixed Jordan with a questing look.
“What?” Jordan folded her arms across her chest.
“What’s the matter?”
“Not you, too, Emily.”
“We’ve been best friends since fourth grade,” Emily said with meaningful emphasis. “You can’t hide anything from me.”
Jordan glanced down at the work bucket and attempted to change the subject. “What were you guys doing?”
Storm shrugged. “Just shining up the brightwork. There’s always something that needs fixing on a wooden boat.”
“Yeah,” Emily said, shading her eyes with one hand as she gazed through the forest of the marina’s masts toward the town. “Based on the size of that crowd that just got off the ferry, we’re going to have a big, fat tour season this year.”
“Cha-ching,” Storm added.
“We’d better have the old girl looking her best before we take on the summer’s first charter, don’t you think?”
Emily’s eagerness to take the Coriolis out cut at Jordan’s heart, as did the little anticipatory jig Storm danced beside the forward mast. Jordan tried a smile, but she felt it slip from her face, dripping down into a grimace of anxiety like an ice cream cone melting in the sun.
Storm stopped his dancing. “Okay, spill it. What’s eating at you, Captain?”
Captain. Since that first sailing lesson with her aunt, it had been Jordan’s dream to be called “Captain” someday. She’d grown up with just one ambition, one hope for her future. She wanted to make her living with sheets and rope, sailing through the stunning beauty of the San Juan Islands. And the best way to earn a living with a sailboat was to skipper charter tours—to rent out your boat, your crew, and your own expertise to wealthy clients. To make their high-dollar dreams come true, providing the magical experience they were after: an unparalleled island experience, exploring the private coves and soaring headlands of the most beautiful region on Earth.
Every birthday, every Christmas, Jordan had asked her family for just one thing: a few dollars to contribute to her boat fund. She guarded that money with the kind of discipline kids seldom had. But her longing for that dream was far stronger than any superficial desire for new clothes, techy gadgets, or exciting vacations.
The day she turned sixteen, she begged her aunt Susan and uncle Ted for a job at Steele Marina, and she quickly proved her worth, washing rich clients’ yachts, then working her way up to the radio, where she managed marina reservations and directed sail-in clients to transient slips. Sometimes in the summer when slips booked up fast the radio was the hot seat, and when she turned them down for moorage, Jordan got her ear chewed by more angry yacht-clubbers than she cared to count. But she never lost her cool. She bore the stresses of the busy marina with a level-headed, almost stern control, and by the time she was eighteen she was working at Steele Marina full-time and managing a staff of twelve during the summer rush.
She saved every cent she earned in her teenage years. She knew her family had been impressed by her discipline and singular focus, but she never expected them to show it in such an astonishing way. When she turned nineteen, her parents offered her a choice: they would help her go to college on the mainland if that was what she wanted—or they would help her get the sailboat of her dreams.
Or course Jordan chose the boat.
She found the Coriolis online, on some obscure boat-trading web site. The eighty-five-foot oyster schooner was a floating pile of junk, plagued by leaks, flaking paint, and a patch of dry rot on its deck that would have scared away a savvier buyer. But it was love at first sight. Jordan knew the Coriolis was the boat she would build her dreams on. Her aunt Susan accompanied her to the mainland town of Anacortes to inspect the schooner, and to Jordan’s relief, Susan pronounced it just sound enough to sail back home to Griffin Bay.
All that year the Coriolis sat in dry storage on her aunt’s property, and every day when her work at the marina was done, Jordan put in more hours to rehabilitate her boat. Her uncle Ted taught her how to tinker with its diesel engine, and her cousins and siblings often joined her in replacing its worn decking and repairing the questionable spots in its hull. By the following summer, the Coriolis looked as sharp and sound as any boat on the water, but its real test would come when Jordan splashed it for its resurrection voyage.
As she watched her boat slide gracefully from its huge trailer into the harbor, Jordan thought her heart would burst with pride. Nothing had ever made her feel so accomplished as the sight of the Coriolis standing straight and true in the water, where it was meant to be. And when she took her place at the helm and sailed her schooner out into the open water… she had been so sure of her future in that moment, absolutely certain nothing could ever make her give up the dream.
It hadn’t taken much arm-twisting to convince Storm and Emily to crew the beautiful schooner. Both of them were crazy about sailing, and there was no one Jordan would rather work with than her co
usin and her best friend. She’d formed Sea Wolf Charters—her very own company!—when she was just twenty-one years old, finally taking her place as the captain of her own charter vessel.
Business that first year had been rocky. The Coriolis was a breathtaking ship, and attracted plenty of interest. But Jordan’s clientele were often reluctant to work with such a young skipper and crew. Her gender as another strike against her in many clients’ eyes; she couldn’t count all the times she had to politely fend off clients’ attempts to sail the boat on their own. Most of them were unconvinced that a woman as young as Jordan could handle a boat as large and seemingly complicated as the Coriolis.
But each time she faced a client’s doubt, Jordan proved her worth—just as she had before, as a kid at the marina. Storm and Emily were her the two solid rocks of her foundation; they smoothly obeyed her every order, and even came up with clever ways to distract the clients when they got a little too bossy or big for their britches. By the end of their first season, the reputation of Sea Wolf Charters had spread, and they went into their second summer more confident than Jordan could have imagined.
But the second season was when the dream began to unravel. Though most of her clients no longer questioned Jordan because of her age, they bombarded her with other demands. The wealthy people who vacationed in the San Juan Islands were used to having everything their way. Soon Jordan was being blamed because her clients hadn’t spotted any whales on their trip, or hadn’t seen enough whales. The food she provided in the galley wasn’t refined enough for their tastes… the berths were too hard, or too soft… the waves were too rough… the wind was too strong… the sun was too bright.
Now Sea Wolf Charters was looking at its fourth year of operation, and Jordan, at age twenty-four, felt as jaded and tired as an old woman. The mere thought of facing the demands of the rich and powerful for yet another summer left her wrung out and exhausted. If she was already feeling too cynical to enjoy the start of the season, how could she hope to make it all the way through to the fall?
Something in her life had to change. She had to find some way to feel good again—to love sailing again, to love her boat, her job—or Jordan was sure she was going to end up hating life in general.
And what then? I’ll leave Griffin Bay altogether. I’ll just get on my boat and sail away and never look back.
The thought was bitter. Could she truly leave her friends behind—her family? She didn’t think she could. But the thought of staying was bitter, too. Jordan couldn’t take another summer as the hired servant of some entitled Richie Rich who refused to see what truly mattered in this life.
“Well?” Storm’s prying kicked Jordan out of her miserable reverie.
She shook her head slowly. “I don’t know, Storm. I guess I’m just not feeling it anymore.”
“Not feeling it? What do you mean?”
Jordan waved vaguely toward the ferry, the crowds of tourists. “This. The tourist season. The charters. All the pressure from our clients to deliver a perfect experience. I can’t ever seem to give our clients what they want, and I… I don’t think I want to try anymore.”
A stunned silence descended over the boat’s deck. Jordan winced as she peered at Storm and Emily in turn. But they didn’t look angry or disappointed; just thoughtful.
“I’ll miss sailing on this boat,” Emily said.
Storm scratched at the dark stubble of his chin. “Me too. A lot.”
“We don’t have to give up the Coriolis,” Jordan said hastily. “I’ll never let this boat go, and you guys know you’re always welcome on my boat.”
“But the moorage is expensive,” Storm said. “If you’re not taking on charters, how will you pay for it?”
“I don’t know yet.” In truth, Jordan hadn’t thought that far ahead—unusual for her. Maybe I’ve been too scared to think that far ahead. “I’ll figure something out. Maybe Aunt Susan will let me rent it out as a live-aboard. You know, a floating vacation cabin.”
“Maybe,” Emily said, but she sounded doubtful. “Will that be steady enough income to pay the moorage on time?”
Jordan shrugged helplessly. “My only thought so far has been…” She trailed off and stared at her friends, the crisis robbing her of all words.
“Don’t worry about us,” Emily said. “You know my parents are rich as sin. I’m practically one of those ‘I demand more whales!’ types.”
“Don’t worry about me, either,” Storm said.
Unlike Emily, Storm did not come from a privileged background. He was a townie—a year-round resident of Griffin Bay. In fact, Storm’s and Jordan’s family had generations of roots wound around the stony heart of San Juan Island. Unlike the wealthy vacationers they catered to, most year-round residents of Griffin Bay were salt-of-the-earth types—farmers and artisans, fishermen and boat mechanics and innkeepers—not the sort of people who could give up a lucrative job on short notice.
“I am going to worry about you both,” Jordan insisted. “Even you, Emily. I know how important it is to you, to make your own living without relying on your parents for help. I’m more than just your friend. I’m your captain and your boss. I have a duty to you both, and I don’t take that lightly.” She sat on the roof of the boat’s cabin and swept off her hat, then massaged her temple with one hand. A definite ache was forming. “I’ll figure this out, I promise. I won’t let you guys go without a good, hefty payment.”
“If you really want to quit, you know we’ll support you in that.” Storm dropped down beside her and pulled her into a rough side-hug. “You know we’ve always got your back. But… well… it will be easier on me if we don’t quit on such short notice. Maybe we can do one last season, and close up shop in the fall.”
“That could work,” Emily said. “It would give Storm and me time to look for new jobs. And you could get enough money to tie up any loose ends. You could even moor the boat here until next summer. That’s a lot of time to figure out where you want your life to go next, Jordy.”
“If you know it’s your last season as floating butler to the rich and famous, you might even enjoy all the snooty demands for better wine and more sun and whales with more symmetrical tail-flukes,” Storm joked.
“Yeah,” Jordan answered vaguely.
She knew her friends were right, but still her stomach clenched and her head pounded at the prospect of four and a half months of the same old, entitled, demanding grind. If I could just figure out a way to pay their year’s salaries in one go, without having to run an entire season of charters… The only option that came readily to Jordan’s mind was to sell Sea Wolf Charters as an intact business—which would certainly mean selling the Coriolis, too.
No way. It won’t come to that. It can’t. I’ll only part with my boat as an absolute last resort.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket with the two short bursts that meant she’d received an email to the Sea Wolf Charters account.
“Ugh,” she said as she fished the phone from her pocket. “Look at this, can you believe it? The demands have already begun.”
“Read it to us,” Emily prompted.
Jordan cleared her throat and began. “‘Dear Ms. Griffin, I am writing to inquire about near-future availability for a chater trip through the San Juan Islands. I’m afraid I’m in need of a peaceful retreat as soon as possible…’”
“Unbelievable,” Storm muttered. “These jerks even want peace and quiet on demand!”
“‘The charter will include just one passenger who has no previous sailing experience.’”
Emily groaned. “Nightmare client.”
“‘I would like this trip to extend for as long as your near-future scheduling allows. Two weeks would be ideal. Please respond at your earliest convenience…’ Blah, blah, blah,” Jordan finished.
“That was a pretty obnoxious email,” Storm said. “I can see why you’re burned out.”
“What are you going to tell him?” Emily asked as Jordan began to thumb-type furiously.
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Jordan finished her reply and hit “send.”
“There,” she said, cherishing a thrill of satisfaction. “I responded at my earliest convenience. I told him I’ve decided to take a hiatus this season and won’t be running any charters. We will run at least a few,” she assured her crew, “but I don’t want this guy on my boat. Demands, demands, demands.”
“Probably a good call,” Storm said.
Then Jordan’s phone buzzed again.
When she glanced down at the response, her heart froze in her chest.
The email read simply, “$150,000.”
“Oh my God,” Jordan whispered.
Storm took the phone from her numb hand and stared blankly at the screen. “He has to be kidding. That’s ten times our normal rate for a ten-day trip!”
“What?” Emily swiped the phone from Storm. “Holy shit, Jordy! We have to do it. We have to!”
“I don’t know. If he’s not pulling my leg, you know he’ll be the client from Hell. Full-blown Lucifer, with horns and a pitchfork and everything.”
“But this kind of money would solve everything for you, Jordy! Instead of doing a full summer season, you’d only have to do one more charter. Just one—and then you’d be finished forever, if that’s what you really want.”
The Coriolis rocked gently beneath Jordan; she trailed one hand along the sun-warmed roof of the cabin.
If this guy’s serious, then it definitely won’t come down to selling my boat. That kind of money would change everything for the better.
All she had to do was commit to one last charter.
“I’ll call him,” Jordan told her friends. “I’ll find out if he’s serious about his offer. And if he is, well… then we’ll see.”
2
Davis jolted out of sleep and instantly regretted it. The moment he opened his eyes, the soft morning light filtering through his bedroom curtains stabbed into his skull. The steady pounding of a hangover started up in his head, relentless and precise in its four-four tempo. He tried to roll over onto his back, but his chest and gut felt heavy, groggy. He’d slept, but he hadn’t slept well.
Hearts on Fire: Romance Multi-Author Box Set Anthology Page 97