Revealed: A Hype PR and Eye Candy Bookstore Anthology

by Bethany Lopez

  "You need to get out of this cove," I said. He almost recoiled at the vicious snap in my words.

  The captain waved at the boat. "Power's out," he said with a pathetic shrug. "Motherboard on the navigation system is fried. And…" He turned his face to the night sky. "Not enough wind to raise the sails."

  I stared out at the calm sea. "I'll radio the Coast Guard. They'll tow you to Portland," I said, my eyes drawn to the tight white polo again. He was fit as fuck. Forcing my attention from his chest, I sneered at his shiny new Sperrys. "Or Bar Harbor. That's probably more your speed."

  "Is that where I am?" he asked. The captain yanked a bandana from his back pocket and pressed it to his forehead. A swell of desire moved through me, and I itched to snatch the fabric away and care for this man myself. That was part of my problem: for all my grousing, I gave a shit. "Maine?"

  "You're thirty miles north of Bar Harbor," I said. "Maine."

  "Bar Harbor is the opposite of my speed." The captain chuckled. His words spoke nothing of humor or levity. "Is there anything closer? Look, I know I'm a pain in your ass right now and I admire your loyalty to the mollusks and plovers. Honestly, I do. But I can't wander back to civilization like this. Not tonight."

  I rasped out an impatient breath. There was no way this would end well. Not for me, not for my cock. "I can tow you to Talbott's Harbor."

  The captain's body sagged in relief. "Thank you. Seriously. I'm a fan of conservation, and if I'd known what I was doing, I never would have drifted into this cove." He lifted the bandana and palpated his forehead, frowning when his fingers came away bloody. He folded the fabric in on itself before returning it to the contusion. "Any chance I'll find a convenience store open at this hour? Motel?"

  I glanced at my watch, the hands glowing in the inky night. Sure, I could wake up the young couple who ran the village's general store and bed-and-breakfast, but… "Unlikely," I said. "I have…some extra room, though you should know I keep my firearms under lock and key. I'll expect the same of you."

  "I thought you were a pirate," the captain admitted. "I'm an idiot."

  "City boy," I said under my breath.

  I returned to the skiff in search of a winch, and kept my back to the captain. I didn't want him to see the smile tugging at my lips.

  Chapter 3

  Cole

  I woke up with a skull-ringing headache.

  It took me a moment to place my surroundings, but the wash-worn linen under my head smelled of earth and sea in a rough, humble way that brought to mind the great redwood of a man who boarded my boat last night.

  He'd said his name was Owen Bartlett when he ushered me to this room.

  Owen of the big, capable hands.

  Owen of the quiet, knowing eyes.

  Owen of the "Good night, and…we'll need that head of yours looked at if it doesn't stop bleeding soon."

  He didn't have to bring me back here. He could've left me to the Coast Guard and motored away without a backward glance. He was ready to kick my ass last night, but he was kind and generous.

  I rolled out of bed, groaning as the pounding in my head intensified. I would have surrendered to the headache if my bladder wasn't a second from bursting. I fumbled across the hall and into the bathroom.

  Once relieved, I set to washing the dried blood from my face. The cut only looked terrible, as if I was an extra on The Walking Dead. There was bruising and swelling running down my nose and over one cheek. As per usual, I'd inflicted a sizable amount of damage on myself.

  Staring into the mirror, I realized that I was almost unrecognizable.

  I'd been on the cover of countless magazines—everything from Forbes and Newsweek to Rolling Stone and Nylon—and while I wasn't as identifiable as Brad Pitt or Justin Timberlake, most people knew I was someone.

  But Owen didn't have to know I was someone. Maybe this was my chance to be no one again, if only for a couple of days.

  After changing into a fresh set of clothes, I wandered down the seaside home's hallway. It was a long, narrow maze of knotty pine and stone that reeked of family with its wide hearth and country kitchen. I expected to find a rosy-cheeked woman rolling out dough for biscuits or some dark-eyed children, but I found neither.

  Discovering that I was alone, I helped myself to a banana. It was late in the day—I'd slept long past breakfast and lunch—and I hadn't eaten since early yesterday.

  "I see you're alive."

  I turned, a chunk of banana in my mouth, and saw him. Owen of the gravely voice and ripped-to-fuck body. A well-loved Red Sox cap shielded most of his face. I nodded, gulping down the banana. That left the limp peel between my fingers, and while I should've been focused on disposing of it, I couldn't tear my eyes off Owen.

  I needed to check in with Neera and my assistant, order replacement parts, hire an electrician, and…and I didn't want to do any of it. I had a business to reclaim and new programming ideas to test, but for the first time since high school, I wanted to slow it all down and take a break.

  Not the bullshit PR cover-up sabbatical, but a vacation.

  In Maine.

  With a fisherman who didn't recognize me.

  He drew his fingertips over the auburn scruff on his jawline, and shook his head. He plucked the peel from my hand, and called over his shoulder, "How about that ride to Bar Harbor?"

  No. This was crazy. Even if he looked like rough-palmed sex on a stick, he was straight. Even if he wasn't, he wasn't hooking up with the random guy who couldn't keep his boat from falling apart. And it wasn't like I had enough game to make anything happen. I'd earned my born-again virgin chip a couple of years back.

  "I'm trying to keep a low profile," I said. He was in front of me again. Close enough to touch. Definitely close enough to pick up the scent of salty air and sunscreen. "Is there any chance you'd rent that room?"

  Owen crossed his arms over his chest, and the grim line of his mouth turned firm.

  "There's what—five, six more weeks until the end of summer? What would that run? About thirty grand?" I fumbled for my wallet, knowing I had cash in there. "I don't have it all, but here's a couple hundred, a decent deposit."

  At that, Owen laughed. It was a startled, uncomfortable sound. I was desperate, and he could see it. I wasn't making a great case for myself, what with me waving cash around.

  "More?" I asked. I knew summer shares weren't cheap. I'd buy the whole fucking house—the town—if I could stay here. And stay with him.

  "Put your money away," he said.

  His voice was deep and low, all coarse vibrations that I was hungry to hear against my skin. It was silly to think Owen would reciprocate, but that didn't stop me from wanting. From hoping.

  "Look, that came out all wrong. My boat is in bad shape. You saw it. It probably needs a system overhaul before I can get out of the harbor. The replacement parts, they have to be custom ordered from a small supplier in California. That's not an overnight situation," I said, holding my hands in front of me.

  Owen yanked the cap off and ran his hand through his hair. It was the same auburn as his beard. He blew out a breath and tossed the cap on the butcher block countertop. "Are you running from something?" he asked.

  Most definitely. I'm running from the reality that I'm not meant to manage the day-to-day affairs of the company I founded. I'm running from the failure of my latest project, and the failures of five before that one. I'm running from the fear that I might have lost the vision that launched my career. I'm running from all the mistakes that I can't seem to shake. I'm running from the cliché of being a sad, lonely billionaire.

  "No," I said with a forced laugh.

  Owen wasn't buying it. "You're not in trouble with the law?" he asked. I knew it then, with absolute certainty. He had no idea who I was, and that was the greatest gift of all. "Or…something else?"

  "Not at all," I said. That sounded believable. "I'm taking some time to reevaluate my priorities, and wanted to get off the grid. I'd be doing that right now if my
navigation and electrical hadn't shit the bed. I'm serious about paying you."

  Owen looked around, his eyes prowling over every surface in the kitchen save for me. I wasn't sure whether he was debating with himself or evaluating whether I'd fucked up the precise order of things in here.

  "I'm not going to take your money," he said at last. He scrubbed his palm over the back of his neck, and oh what fresh hell was this life. I wanted to feel his hand on my neck right now. "But I could use some help."

  Please say you need help massaging away some knots in your neck, or a charley horse.

  "You name it," I said. I was really rooting for that charley horse.

  "My deckhand leaves for school this week," he said. "He goes to University of New Hampshire. It's early, but he works in the dorms now. Some kind of advisor."

  "You need a deckhand?" I asked. I knew he worked on the water. Hell, there was a coffee table fashioned from a lobster trap in the other room. This place was fisherman central. "I'm better with…" What the fuck did I do well? I was terrible with people, moody as shit, and hated matters of business and finance. I could code, and had the personal phone numbers of several other tech billionaires who alternately wanted to kill me and commiserate with me. "Technical things."

  "You'll learn," Owen said. His gaze landed on me for a long beat, and I would've fidgeted under his watch if I hadn't craved it so much.

  Oh, fuck yes, I'll learn.

  "How about a steak?" He moved to the refrigerator and pantry, where he piled food in the crook of his thick arm.

  Soon, he had the ingredients laid out on the counter in neat rows. I wanted to ask how often he cooked for two, whether there was someone special in his life.

  "Why won't you let me give you any money?" I asked.

  Owen was busy seasoning the meat, and didn't look up when he spoke. "It's not necessary," he said. "If you really need to get rid of thirty grand, give it to the Maine Lobster Conservancy."

  "Is that what you fish?" I asked. Watching Owen prepare food was like ballet, but instead of the dancer and Swan Lake, it was a hot fisherman and red meat. Breathtaking. "Lobster?"

  He nodded, and pointed his elbow toward the romaine lettuce. "Can you manage a salad? Are you as reckless with kitchen knives as you are with shotguns?"

  I sighed. I wasn't living that one down any time soon. "Since we've established you're not a pirate, I'll be fine."

  "Arrrrr," he barked in a stunningly bad pirate voice. I wedged beside him at the counter and chopped the lettuce. "Ye can't be sure."

  Chapter 4

  Owen

  Cole didn't know the first thing about fishing.

  He caught on quickly, thank fuck, but he'd have to after falling overboard the first day out on the water. I still didn't understand why he'd chosen to spend the summer sailing the eastern seaboard if he didn't fish. The two went hand in hand, at least in my eyes.

  He wasn't the worst sailor, but he ignored his instincts in favor of the nav systems and sonar. It was as if he trusted the machines more than he trusted himself. The fact that he hadn't crashed that boat of his into any underwater rock formations or another sailing vessel was nothing short of miraculous.

  It was a learning experience, our first weeks together. We were both particular, but he erred on the side of anal retentive perfectionism, and I didn't have time for that shit. He was a night owl, and a lifetime on the water had formed me into an early bird. I was a Red Sox fan, and he was wrong.

  "You got that?" I called, jerking my chin toward the starboard side buoys. The sun was high overhead, and only here, miles from the shore, did the breeze extinguish August's humidity.

  "Yeah," Cole said.

  I chuckled to myself as I watched Cole's eyes widen when the buoy came into reach. I didn't know what he did—he'd said he owned a firm that was "in tech" and left it at that—though he indicated he had enough flexibility to take an extended summer vacation. Apparently he had enough financial cushion for it, too.

  Must be nice.

  I tossed several more traps into the water while Cole wrestled one up. The first time he'd hoisted up a trap filled with live lobsters, he fumbled it back into the water with an uncomfortable howl. Today, he was better. He knew what to expect this time, and he didn't flinch when reaching in to sort the sellable lobsters from the ones who deserved more time under the sea.

  He looked better, too. The bruising on his face had cooled to a sickly yellow-green shade, and he seemed relaxed. That first night, when his boat was stalled in the cove, probably wasn't the standard by which to judge Cole McClish, but the hard work and hot sun were doing him good. I could tell, and I couldn't help but look every chance I got.

  When he set another trap and dropped it off the side of the boat without hesitation, my chest surged with pride. He'd learned all that from me, in this short time.

  "You didn't even cry with that one," I said as I traversed the deck. "We'll make a lobsterman out of you yet."

  I clapped him on the back as he pivoted toward me, and that left us in an unexpected embrace. My hand continued patting his shoulder. How could I stop? How could I push him away when the only thing I truly wanted was to feel his skin under mine?

  Cole's fingers were curled around my forearm as if he was bracing himself, but instead of maintaining a polite distance, he leaned into me. His shoulder was on my chest and his breath on my neck, and I want you more than I've ever wanted anyone was on my tongue.

  Neither of us made a move to break away for a long, confusing beat that twisted with more heat and affection than I could manage right now.

  Clearing my throat, I drew my hand back and gazed at the water. "Need some supplies up the coast," I said, still watching the waves. I wasn't ready to look at Cole, and I didn't. I returned to the controls without a backward glance because I couldn't trust myself to meet his eyes without revealing the depth of my desire for him.

  ***

  "This is an excellent burger," Cole said. "I haven't eaten this well since…since my mother was cooking for me. I'm getting really fucking spoiled here. And fat."

  He patted his flat belly, the one I'd seen bare too many times to forget. The afternoon sun was scorching, and once the day's catch was safely stowed, he peeled those shirts right off. He was golden and sculpted, and I only allowed myself brief glances.

  "You've been kind to let me stay here, Owen," he said. He shrugged, kicking the emotion out of this moment. "Much more of this home cooking and good conversation, and you're going to ruin your reputation as a pirate."

  "Fuck off, city boy," I murmured. A smile pulled at my lips. This companionship was nice. The domesticity, too. Looking after someone fed an urge that I'd otherwise ignored, and there were moments when caring for Cole satisfied me more than anything I could imagine between the sheets.

  Cole tipped his beer bottle to his lips and shot an anxious glance at me. "You know…you don't have to wait on me."

  He turned his attention to the cove before continuing. He shared my love of dinners on the back porch. Many evenings were spent admiring sunsets and pointing out constellations, and I didn't mind that our conversations put me behind on my reading. Whitman could wait. Thoreau, too.

  "I'm sure you have friends. Maybe a girlfriend. Or two. You don't have to put your life on hold because I'm hanging out here."

  I reached into the ice chest between us and grabbed two more longnecks. "I'm still worried that you're going to accidentally shoot yourself," I said, knocking the bottle caps off. Another mouthful of cold beer washed down my internal debate. I wasn't ashamed of myself, and while I didn't hide my sexual orientation, it wasn't something I offered up. But this afternoon, and that hug. I was still feeling every spot where his body had connected with mine. Maybe he was feeling it, too. "And no girlfriends. I'm gay."

  Cole's mouth fell open as the shock registered, but he rapidly schooled his expression. "That's cool," he stammered.

  Fuck. Fuck it all.

  "Is that going to be a prob
lem for you?" I asked, studying his reaction.

  "No," he said.

  It was a little too forceful, as if he knew he was walking the line between acceptable responses and honest ones. It would be a real shame if he was a bold-faced homophobe. Couldn't have that.

  "No," he repeated. "Not at all. You just caught me by surprise. No, no, we're cool. If you're seeing someone, please don't change your routine on my account. You're welcome to bring, uh, him around."

  I watched his throat bob as he guzzled his beer, and while I felt better that I'd cleared the air between us, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't disappointed that he didn't offer up his own big gay surprise. That would have improved this conversation considerably.

  "Come on," he said, gesturing inside. "The game starts in five minutes, and you're miserable if you miss the first pitch."

  I shook my head at that. I liked to watch entire baseball games and Cole could live on highlights; he was obviously dropped on his head as a baby. "Baseball is meant to be appreciated in its complete form. You need to realize that life shouldn't be condensed down to one hundred and forty characters."

  He stopped gathering our plates to glance at me. "Wait. Was that a Twitter reference? I thought you were taking the On Walden Pond approach to life, but you're a down-low Tweep, aren't you?"

  Cole extracted a great deal of pleasure from ragging on my low-tech lifestyle. "That sounded like a gay slur, McClish."

  "Not even a little bit," he said, laughing. I closed the screen door behind us, careful to keep the Japanese beetles and dragonflies outside. "But you really should let me rewire your setup. Get a DVR, and some expanded access for games outside your market. You'll appreciate it come football season."

  "Sit down and enjoy the damn game," I said, pointing at the sofa.

  "Every minute of it," he said.

  We settled into an amenable banter of cheers, groans, and curses punctuated with comfortable silence. I'd been alone for years and rarely considered what it would be like to have real companionship, but playfully arguing with Cole about the Red Sox showed me what I could have. What I wanted.