Rock the Boat: A Griffin Bay Novel

by Starling, Lib

  Tyler slapped him good-naturedly on the back. “That’s my star. Pack your bags; I’ll have a car here to pick you up at one o’clock sharp.”

  .3.

  Emily stepped down from the ladder onto the dock and brushed her hands together with a brisk, satisfied, finishing-up gesture. The Coriolis bobbed against its moorings as if eager to be off.

  “Food’s all stowed in the galley,” Emily said to Jordan, “and I stashed your gear in your berthing locker. Storm’s got his stuff all packed up, too. He’s checking the engine now. The cabin is spic and span, ready for Mr. Moneybags’ dream vacation.”

  “Thanks,” Jordan said. She checked her waterproof watch. “Hopefully he gets here soon. It’s already 3:30; we were supposed to cast off about fifteen minutes ago, but he’s nowhere in sight.”

  “You know how what those wealthy clients are like. The world has to function according to their schedules, not vice-versa.”

  Jordan rolled her eyes. “Don’t remind me. At least this is the last charter client we’ll ever take aboard.”

  “Maybe,” Emily said with a sly smile.

  “Don’t hang your hopes on Sea Wolf. I’m serious about quitting. You know I only agreed to this trip because of the paycheck. It’ll tide you and Storm over until next summer and pay my moorage for the next nine months. And it’ll give me enough time to figure out what I want to do with my life.” At least, I hope it will give me enough time for that… “I just want to survive this trip and make it back to the pier without losing my mind. Then I can figure out how to move on with my life.”

  “Sheesh, you make it sound like we’re going to sail into a white squall. ‘Survive this trip!’ What are you so worried about, Jordy?”

  Jordan sighed, shoving her sunglasses up so she could rub her eyelids. Her eyes felt gritty and sore, as if she’d been crying for hours, though in fact she hadn’t shed a tear. “I’m worried about this client. What kind of person offers ten times the normal charter rate? He has to be the most demanding, high-maintenance person we’ve ever taken on board. If I hadn’t already been thinking about giving up the business, I’m sure this guy would push me to that point. I have a feeling I’m going to want to throw myself overboard before we’ve even made it to Lopez Island.”

  Emily laughed, a high, musical sound. Emily’s laughter had always cheered Jordan, always coaxed her out of the worst funks. The cute blonde’s bright, optimistic nature was just one of many reasons why Jordan had considered Emily her best friend for all these years. But now, as she waited for the client from Hell to arrive—as she prepared herself to let this pushy, high-dollar creep onto the Coriolis, her sacred sanctuary—Jordan only felt herself sliding deeper into anxiety and despair. She groaned and leaned her head on Emily’s shoulder, seeking the comfort only her best friend could give.

  “Aw, Jordy.” Emily wrapped her arms tight around Jordan’s middle and squeezed. “Don’t be such a bummer. You’ve got to loosen up and learn how to have fun.”

  “I have plenty of fun!”

  Emily snorted. “You know I love you, but come on. Spontaneity is not exactly your middle name. I’m not trying to make you feel badly. You should be really proud of everything you’ve achieved. How many twenty-four-year-olds can say they run their own business? Especially one as successful as Sea Wolf Charters?”

  “I’m hardly the most successful charter captain in the world,” Jordan said. But she couldn’t keep a tiny smile from her face. She was proud of all she’d accomplished. She struggled through that first season to prove her worth to some of the most demanding, judgmental clients in the world. And she did it. She built her reputation, against all odds.

  “Everything you have—the business, your reputation, this beautiful boat—you have because you stayed focused on your goal. I can never tell you how much I admire you for that drive. You know what you want out of life, and you make your dreams come true, come Hell or high water.”

  Yeah, right. Jordan had always thought she knew what she wanted. But she had no idea what she ought to do once Sea Wolf Charters closed. “This is the first time in my life I’ve been without a purpose, without some target to shoot for. There’s no clear destination on the horizon, and that makes me feel…”

  “Lost?” Emily suggested. “Anxious? Scared? Freaked out? Perhaps a little grumpy?”

  Jordan laughed softly. “All of the above.”

  “That’s just what I’m talking about. It’s okay to feel those things. You don’t always have to be laser-focused. You don’t need a perfectly defined future. You don’t need to have everything figured out.”

  The very thought of drifting aimlessly through life made Jordan’s stomach churn with nausea.

  “It’s okay to just let go sometimes,” Emily continued. “It’s okay to take risks… be crazy and wild. Sometimes we all need that. In moderation.”

  “That’s never been me.”

  “But there’s no reason why it can’t be you. What’s the worst that could happen if you went all spur-of-the-moment, just once?”

  Jordan threw up her hands. “Anything! Everything! People who don’t plan and focus make stupid decisions. They do things they regret later. They do things that make them miserable!”

  “And you… you planned and focused and made your longest-held dream come true. And now… you’re miserable.”

  “Okay, you got me there.” Jordan stuffed her fists in the pockets of her quick-dry sailing pants. “But I just can’t imagine myself cutting loose and going wild… or being comfortable with an unknown future. It’s just not me.”

  Emily tipped her head to one side. Her golden ponytail swung across her shoulder. “Maybe you should imagine a little harder. I bet this trip won’t be nearly as bad as you think.”

  “Oh, yeah? I bet it’ll be worse.”

  Emily stuck out her tongue.

  “The worst. Ever,” Jordan said. “The. Worst.”

  The sky resonated with the tinny hum of a prop plane. Jordan and Emily turned to gaze southeast, past the masts of the marina and the nearby, hunched green back of Brown Island. A float plane appeared over the island’s trees, skimming low, heading for its landing on the smooth water of the harbor. It wasn’t one of the usual yellow-and-white planes that carried passengers from Seattle and Bellingham. This one was deep red with silver-gray floats.

  “I’ve never seen a plane like that before,” Emily said.

  Jordan nodded and drew herself up, bracing her hands on her hips. “It’s a private plane. Looks like Mr. Moneybags has arrived.” She could consider cutting loose and going wild later—after her last charter trip was finished. She would need all the self-possession and laser focus she could muster if she was going to make it through the next ten days.

  The whine of the plane’s engine filled the bowl of the harbor as it touched down on the water. Storm emerged from below decks and shaded his eyes to watch it coast toward the float-plane pier. Jordan, too, eyed the plane in wary silence as Emily shuffled eagerly beside her. Two of the marina’s teenage staff hurried down the dock to help secure the plane to its temporary moorings, and before the propeller had stopped spinning the door opened, revealing Jordan’s last client as he emerged from the plane’s narrow interior.

  Jordan’t first thought was that he didn’t look like a typical charter sailor. Even at a distance, she could tell he was much younger than her average client. Dressed in a simple white t-shirt and dark jeans that hugged his legs and crotch just enough to emphasize his fit physique, he didn’t even look particularly wealthy. Big aviator shades covered his eyes, but she could see the blue shadow of stubble on his jaw. Artfully mussed hair, so dark it was almost black, tossed and ruffled in the wind. The two teenage boys on the dock drew back as if in awe. The man in the white t-shirt hoisted a duffel bag from within the plane and slung it on one shoulder. Then he took a long, black guitar case from the pilot and set off down the dock, brushing past the gawking boys, moving with an easy, unhurried stride that spoke of supreme c
onfidence.

  Jordan could feel the man’s cockiness rolling off him in palpable waves. She turned to give Emily an “I told you so” look, but Emily was staring fixedly at the client. The closer he came—Jordan could hear his ratty All-Stars scraping softly along the planks of the pier—the wider Emily’s eyes grew.

  “Holy shit,” Emily said, somewhere between a squeak and a whisper. “Jordan, do you know who that is?”

  The man stopped in front of Jordan and paused. She couldn’t see anything in his shades but the reflection of Griffin Bay and her own distorted face, yet still she had the distinct feeling that his eyes were scanning her slowly, moving up and down her body in a leisurely appraisal.

  “Hey,” he finally said.

  His voice was deep and smooth, with just a hint of gravel to it. It raised a strange, tickling sensation in her stomach, which Jordan ruthlessly ignored. She deliberately avoided looking at his arms—though they seemed to fill her peripheral vision with their firm definition, their moderate bulk that spoke of a naturally powerful frame. He took in a deep breath, as if savoring the clean sea air, and Jordan turned her eyes away from his blocky chest, the way the two slabs of muscle showed clearly through the thin fabric of his t-shirt.

  He was not hot, Jordan told herself firmly. He was the worst. She wouldn’t let herself forget that. She would do her job and make it through the next ten days with this dark-haired, slow-walking, velvet-voiced jerk if it killed her. And then she would be done.

  She forced herself to stick out her hand. “I’m Jordan Griffin.”

  The man set his guitar case down and took her hand in his own. His grip was warm, and he squeezed her fingers with startling boldness—a confidence that she herself did not feel. As they shook, she felt the rough scratch of hardened skin on his fingertips, and that roughness against her own skin, the way his big hand almost swallowed up her own, left her faintly disoriented.

  “Sea Wolf Charters, right?” he said.

  “Yep, you’re in the right place.” Jordan’s voice was unaccountably croaky. “Like I said, I’m Jordan, your captain. And this is Emily, and up on the boat is Storm. They’re my crew.”

  “Great… great,” he said in those long, slow tones, gazing coolly around. “Guess I should introduce myself, too. I’m—”

  “You’re Davis Steen,” Emily blurted. She clapped a hand over her mouth and cast an apologetic glance at Jordan. Then she said calmly, matter-of-factly, “You’re the lead singer for The Local Youths.”

  Davis laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that felt like a whisper in Jordan’s ear. “Yeah, that’s right. So I guess my shades weren’t much use as a disguise.”

  “I’m just a really big fan, that’s all,” Emily said rapidly. “I would have recognized you anywhere.”

  “Uh, Emily,” Jordan said, “why don’t you and Storm go make sure everything in the cabin is stowed?”

  “We already did.”

  “Double-check.” Jordan narrowed her eyes at Emily, who bit her lip to stifle another squeak and scrambled for the ladder.

  Storm made his way along the stanchions and reached out a hand. “Hey, Davis,” he called down. “Nice to meet you. Hand me your stuff and we’ll get it stowed down below.”

  Davis, occupied with passing his bag and guitar up to Storm, missed the show as Emily snapped her head around to goggle at Jordan. Oh. My. GOD!, she mouthed silently. Then she vanished into the depths of the cabin.

  Jordan turned back to Davis. “I’m sorry about that. Emily’s a great sailor. I rely on her a lot. But she gets a little over-enthusiastic sometimes.”

  Davis smiled. The way one side of his mouth curved up higher than the other sent a little shiver through Jordan’s middle. “It’s okay. She seems like a sweet girl. As long as she’s not as big a fan of Can’t Never as she is of The Local Youths, I think I can put up with her.”

  “All the same, I’ll keep her under control. I want you to enjoy your time on the Coriolis. I understand you’ve been prescribed a little down time by your record label.”

  “So Tyler filled you in on my predicament, huh?”

  “He was very… insistent that I take good care of you.” Insistent to the tune of a hundred-fifty-thousand bucks. “So if there’s anything you need, any way I can help you enjoy yourself, just let me know.”

  Davis swept off his shades and fixed Jordan with his cocky half-smile. His eyes were a startling shade of blue, as brilliant as the harbor on a summer morning. The faintest suggestion of laugh lines crinkled at their corners.

  “That’s quite an offer.”

  Jordan swallowed hard; her cheeks flamed. “That’s not what I meant. I mean… I…” Suddenly she felt cold and exposed in her tank top. She hugged her own arms, cursing her fumbling tongue. She mentally hexed Davis, too, for pushing her so completely off her guard with one stupid grin. Who the hell does he think he is?

  Davis laughed softly, and again the deep, plush rumble of his voice seemed to fill her head, teasing up a shiver along her spine. “Don’t worry, Jordan. I’m just here to have a good time. To cut loose and enjoy myself.”

  He moved past her, so close that the cuff of his t-shirt grazed her bare arm. She could feel a momentary flash of heat emanating from his body, and the harbor breeze lifted his smell, warm and spicy with a faint musk that set her heart to pounding.

  Davis climbed the ladder and made a few tentative steps across the deck of the Coriolis. He moved with the slightly hunched posture of one who’d never been on a boat before. Unused to the slight rocking and the hollow sound of the teak planks beneath his feet, all of Davis’s arrogant bearing vanished. He looked uncertain, maybe even a little nervous.

  Jordan seized her opportunity. She stepped up the ladder with all the natural command of the captain she was. The Coriolis was her domain, and no cocky rock star was going to put her out of her element. Not even if his voice was smooth as black silk and the smell of his hard, toned body made her knees weak.

  She was in charge here—of the boat, the crew, her future and her fate. Davis Steen had better remember that.

  .4.

  In the first hour of his sailing adventure, Davis had already picked up so much boat lingo that he felt like an old salt. The two big, wooden poles sticking up from the middle of the boat were called masts—but of course he knew that from his pre-seafaring existence. Only a perfect idiot would have made it to his thirties without knowing what a mast was. But as Jordan Griffin and her two-person crew worked the ropes and sails like a well-oiled machine—Jordan calling out orders as she minded the ship’s big, spoked steering wheel—his nautical vocabulary expanded.

  No, those weren’t ropes. They were lines. And the wheel was apparently called the helm. Gaff and stay, rudder and keel, he savored the enchanting language of sailing as Jordan, Storm, and Emily went about their business with brisk efficiency. There was a rhythm to this language that Davis, as a lifelong musician, couldn’t help but appreciate. There was a rhythm, too, to sailing itself—the timing and grace with which the crew angled the huge white sails, catching the wind just so; the perfect, mathematic intervals of bobbing waves, as steady as a metronome’s beat.

  Of course, he was still a total newbie. And if he was perfectly honest with himself, he found this whole sailing thing a little intimidating. There was a lot of water below the boat, stretching down to depths he couldn’t imagine. The thought of what might be lurking below the surface gave him a mild case of the creeps. He tried to ignore all the unknown possibilities.

  “We’ve got a nice following wind,” Jordan called to her crew.

  “Wooo!” Storm shouted in reply from the front of the boat.

  The wiry, tousled young crewman stood far from Davis’s perch in the sunken cockpit, not far from Jordan and the helm. Davis was trying his best kick back with an unconcerned expression, but even though he found the boat’s gentle up-down motion soothing as it breasted across the low waves—and even though he was picking up the lingo—he was still painfull
y aware that he was out of his element. Way, way out.

  Storm, on the other hand, darted along the boat’s impressive eighty-five-foot length with the confidence and inborn aptitude of a squirrel leaping from tree branch to tree branch. Davis watched Storm fiddle with some sort of line running from the front-most mast.

  “Let’s raise the mainsail,” Jordan called.

  Storm joined Emily where she stood beside an orderly collection of lines locked in metal cleats. “Ready?” he asked, and the blonde girl nodded.

  As each began to haul on their lines, the long pole connected horizontally to the mast—the boom, as Jordan called it—began to wiggle loosely.

  “Keep your head down,” Jordan said to Davis. “This thing is going to fly right over you, and believe me, it’s no fun getting hit.”

  Davis gave Jordan a dry look from behind his shades. God, she was hot—slim and leggy, and her tight blue tank top revealed plenty of sun-kissed, perfectly smooth skin. It revealed some cleavage, too, between those cute, round little breasts. Her coffee-brown hair was done up in a wind-tangled ponytail, pulled out through the rear loop of a black ball cap that read Griffin Bay, WA in hot-pink embroidery. Davis had noticed her graceful, athletic body the moment he’d stepped off the float plane. Jordan’s hotness had been a welcome treat, the only thing to brighten his mood since he had woken up to Tyler’s obnoxious buzzing at his condo door that morning.

  And when he’d checked her out at close range… Wow. Her long face with its delicate features and her level, dark-eyed stare gave Jordan a serious expression that teetered on the edge of “stodgy librarian,” but the sternness was totally undone by the scattering of freckles across her cheeks and nose. And her full, pink lips—they lent Jordan a totally different look. Once the boat was underway, Davis had found himself staring at her mouth more times than he could count. He was far more captivated by her lips than by the beauty of the San Juan Islands. He couldn’t stop wondering what they would feel like pressed against his own mouth—or in a variety of other places.