Sun-Kissed (Love In All Seasons Book 1)

by Frankie Love

  He leans over, kissing Cordy's hair. "God, she's gonna be so big when I get back."

  "I'll send videos and pictures. It's gonna be okay."

  Tears fill both of our eyes, and we don't look away.

  "I love you so damn much," he says, and my love wraps around him, my soul entwines with his.

  Sampson is going to sea, but he is anchored to my heart. Now, and for always.

  Chapter One

  I make no apologies for the kind of man I am.

  And why the hell should I?

  I was born and raised in God’s country. Not everyone understands what it means to be an Alaskan mountain man, but I sure as fuck would expect any woman who married me to get the concept.

  Of course, when Sheila fooled me into thinking she was my kind of woman, I figured she understood that I lived and breathed the wild mountain air, the ice-cold ocean, the skies so blue you could get swallowed up in them.

  But all she was after was a ring on her finger. After a weekend of knowing one another I ended up in Vegas, so fucking far from home I feared I would never get back where I belonged.

  I learned from that mistake. A mistake like that? I sure as hell will never make it again.

  Out in my fishing boat this summer morning, trolling for King salmon in the open waters, I push away the uncomfortable memories of the past and try to clear my head––focus on the good things in my life. Like my family who has my back, this town that feels like home, and my mutt Chum who’s barking up a shit storm below deck.

  “I hear ya, buddy,” I say, setting down my thermos of coffee and opening the below deck cabin door. “You sure you wanna come up? The water is choppy this morning.” I grab a doggy biscuit laced with an herbal motion sickness remedy. A lady in town bakes them for Chum, and they seem to help somewhat.

  Tossing it to him, he follows me up, wagging his tail, ready for the day.

  I leave him below deck as much as possible because watching him get nauseous is painful. Chum’s the only dog I’ve ever known who gets seasick, and he doesn’t seem to have his sea-legs yet. Through four years out here with me, I’d thought he’d have grown them by now.

  Still, he insists on staying by my side. This dog has been with me through thick and thin. The fact that one encounter with Sheila caused him to go into beast mode on her should have been red flag enough. He tossed her boots overboard, ripped her purses to shreds, and insisted on sleeping between her and me on the bed. Chum may not be able to hold his own on the open water, but he’s good at looking out for me.

  The marriage to Sheila didn’t last long anyways, and Chum called it straight away. Still, that woman is hell-bent on making sure she gets as much money from me as possible before she agrees to sign on the dotted line.

  We’ve been in divorce court for two fucking years, and I’m over it. She cheated on me. Hell, she was sleeping with anyone who had deep pockets before we eloped, she had no intention of stopping after.

  It’s bullshit, that’s what it is. I was faithful to her, but all that’s done now. Our sham of a marriage is nothing more than a memory I’d like to forget so long as our lawyers come to an agreement.

  And I’ll fight her tooth and nail before I give her any more money than necessary. I’m sure as hell not gonna hand my family’s fortune over without a fight to a woman who’s already planning on buying a condo in Maui.

  Shit, I hate getting bent out of shape over Sheila. I check my downrigger where it’s set in the icy water and am pleased to see Chum and I have caught some salmon.

  This time of year I live on my boat, I go out on week-long fishing trips, and when I’m home, I spend my days with my lines in the water. My nights are spent at the bar at the end of the marina, before I come back here, below deck, and sleep it off.

  Sleep alone, mostly. Damn, it’s been a fucking long time since I wet my whistle. And sitting out here, all by myself, I have plenty of time fantasizing about my dream woman. The silver lining to the Sheila mistake is that I learned what I really want in a partner--and what I sure as hell don’t.

  And damn, the woman I want... I’m about ready to lose my load just thinking about her.

  Not that she exists. If she does, I sure as hell haven’t met her yet. And how could I in a fishing town like this?

  My girl, she’d be tender and innocent. Not a jaded bitch who’s looking for something only found in a bank account.

  Hell, if I ever commit to a woman again, she’s gonna be the exact opposite of my ex.

  Not that I can find a girl like that here. The local ladies are tough as nails, and I guess you need to be that way if you live out here in the wild. But when I think about my dream woman--the kind of woman who really gets me hard, she isn’t like the girls I grew up with.

  I picture myself with the woman who speaks softly, who fits in my arms, who needs a real man to take care of her--and who doesn’t judge a person on his 401k.

  I shake my head, checking out the size of the King salmon. Chum is right by my side, his tongue hanging out––the smell of the morning catch is apparently making him feel better.

  “You hungry?” He yips at me, and I grab some chum from a bucket and fill his dish. He goes to town on the scraps and I pat his back, telling him how well we’ve done with our morning catch.

  I’m guessing salmon is the only thing I’m gonna be catching anytime soon so long as I stay up here in Alaska. I wonder, like I so often do, if it’s about time I cast my net a little wider.

  Ready to call it a morning, I turn my rig around and head toward the cannery to drop off my catch. As I drive my boat toward the pier, I see Max, an old friend from town wave at me from his boat. I nod my head at him; glad he was able to get out on the water today. I know he was sick the last few weeks, and when a fisherman isn’t on his boat--he doesn’t get paid.

  Pulling up at the pier, Thomas greets me with a hearty, “Top of the morning.” How an old Irishman made it to middle-of-nowhere Alaska is beyond me, but his toothy grin never fails to make me smile. Which is a fucking miracle considering my reputation for being stoic and reserved.

  After he’s gutted and weighed my fish, he asks how I’m holding up. He seems to think the fact that I’m flying solo is a bad thing.

  “You need a wife, someone to keep you warm at night. Alaska’s too lonely to fare without a woman by your side.”

  I give him a sidelong glance, having heard this all before. My family founded this town, and everyone knows my name. Seem to think they can give me their opinions too.

  “Doing fine, thanks though, Thomas. Chum is pretty good at keeping me company.”

  Thomas claps me on the back. “Oh, son, you just haven’t found the right woman. Maybe you need to look a little farther. I’ve heard about matchmakers sending mail order brides to remote areas in Alaska.”

  “I spend most of my time on this boat. Not sure it’s big enough for two people.”

  And if my marriage to Sheila has taught me anything, it’s that I don’t really have the personality to go through the bullshit of online dating, or even meeting with the matchmaker. Let’s just say, I’m not exactly oozing charm. But I won’t say all that to Thomas. He means well.

  “But you have that gorgeous cabin out on the mountain. My wife Leanna would faint if I had something like that for her.”

  I raise an eyebrow, laughing as the morning sun shines down on us. “But you’re a nice guy, Thomas. Me? Not so much.”

  I’m not the guy you take home to meet your daddy, I’ve got a beard so fierce that it would make most guys’ dicks limp with shame, and eyes that have been called smoldering a time or twenty. I don’t put on a damn show, I got nothing to prove, and my eyes tell you exactly what I mean.

  Thomas, though, just shakes his head and laughs. “All us fisherman, we’re hard to reel in when we were young. Age will slow you down a bit, and a good woman will do her part in helping with that.”

  I tell him I’ll see him in a week and a half-- I’m headed out on a ten-day fishing
trip tomorrow--and board my boat.

  Driving my boat back to the marina to find some breakfast, I pull my beanie down over my ears. It’s cold, even though it’s June. We’re on the coast, and the water always brings in a chill on the Inland Passage. And today it’s much windier than usual.

  As I pull into my slip at the marina, I see a woman on the dock.

  This fisherman’s marina is not where the fancy ass yachts go, and the tourists from the cruise ships that come this way have to take a water taxi to get to our village. When someone that isn’t from around here shows up, people take notice.

  One glance at this woman and it’s clear she doesn’t belong. The people that belong here, at this marina, wear overalls and chew tobacco. They’ve got bushy beards and eat jerky they made from their own kill.

  Well, I guess I could say most guys.

  Not me. I may have a beard, and I may eat jerky, but I clean up all right.

  I know how to take a damn shower and always keep my boat clean for that matter. Hell, I figure if I spend as much time as I do on this ship I might as well keep it nice.

  The woman wears a light blue raincoat that looks too thin to keep her warm. And on her feet are bright yellow rain boots, she has on leggings covered in flowers, and her nearly white hair blows in the wind.

  As I pull into my slip, I see the girl using her hand to keep her hair away. She may be several yards away, but I can see she is staring at me.

  Chum notices her too and starts barking up a storm, jumping off the boat and running toward her. In her surprise to see a big old mutt racing toward her, she loses her balance. Her hands whip out, as she tries to steady herself, but it’s no use. Chum has completely blindsided her and she can’t steady herself.

  She falls in, head over heels, into the ice cold water.

  “Holy fuck,” I scream, running off my boat and toward the end of the dock where she fell.

  “Chum,” I shout. “Back on the boat. Now.” Goddammit, this water is frigid, but she’s splashing like a wild animal in that water, and I sure as hell hope a sea lion doesn’t see her and think she’s something good to eat.

  She’s screaming from the shock, but then her head dips under the water, the current strong and choppy water unforgiving.

  I jump in after her, pulling at her waist, dragging her up the dock before flinging her onto the wooden planks.

  “Are you breathing, you okay?” I shout, half terrified and half out of breath, as I lift myself up from the water, my muscles pulling at my soaking wet clothes.

  I look down at her, she’s a shivering mess, sopping wet, huddled over and sobbing, shaking from the shock.

  “Holy shit balls.” I’m furious. At what, I’m not sure. Chum didn’t mean any harm, but hell, the water took my breath away.

  And when I look down at this woman, she does too.

  When she looks up, my heart warms––which is saying something considering that water is so cold we could have fucking frozen.

  Okay, it’s a lie to say my heart warmed. The ignition turns the fuck on and surges into overdrive. Her eyes are icy blue like the frigid ocean and they pierce me. I’m staring at her when I should be yelling at her for being a fool-- but instead, my heart is melting like the North Pole.

  I pull her into my arms, lifting her from the dock. I know one thing this woman needs and that is to warm up hella quick. I look around. “Someone with you?” I ask.

  She’s in my arms, light as a feather, even though her clothing is soaked through and weighs a shit ton. I hold her in my arms and I won’t let go. I ask again. “Are you alone?”

  She manages to speak this time. “No one’s here with me.” Her teeth chatter, she looks so lost, those bright blue eyes of hers bluer than the water she just fell into and her hair so white it’s like the foam on a cresting wave.

  “I’m taking you to my boat,” I tell her. Not asking for permission. She needs to warm up. I need to rip off her soaked clothes and wrap blankets around her until her body heat begins to recirculate. Otherwise, she’ll get hypothermia, and that’s not happening on my watch.

  I get her back to my boat, carry her below deck, and I slam the door behind me, locking it. Not sure why, maybe I intrinsically know my job right now is to make sure she’s safe, that no one sees her. That no one gets close to her.

  Because when I saw her on my bed, I see a woman who belongs here. I pull off her raincoat coat and can now see that she is slight and young and fucking beautiful.

  She reaches for her boots, and I see how slender her fingers are. It’s too hard for her to pull them off when she is so wet and cold, so I kneel before her and help. She looks at me with a flash of fear in her eyes, but then she licks her lips; lips so pink I swear they’ve never been kissed. She oozes innocence, her eyelashes flutter, and I’m done for.

  I need to get out of these soaking wet clothes, and so does she.

  I’m going to warm her up and then I’m going to make her mine.

  Chapter Two

  When I tell people my dad is my music coach they think it’s cute but they don’t understand that it’s been rough.

  I graduated college a year early, and since then, my almost-made-it-big father is intent on vicariously living through me.

  Living with my parents is hard enough… but constantly being under their scrutiny is making it hell on earth.

  To say my dad is stealing all the joy from my music would be an understatement, to say the least.

  I’m in Alaska, on a family cruise, and yet I’ve still been on a practice schedule every day while my family is off exploring.

  I want a break... but he doesn’t think I’ve earned one.

  “If you really want to earn a spot in the symphony you would understand this sacrifice.”

  And I do want a spot. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.

  But since I graduated, and I’ve become regimented in my playing, my music has only suffered.

  Which is only getting me further from my dream. I feel so stuck on how to “unstick” myself.

  And my family only wants to stick me some more. It’s not just my dad who’s trying to dictate my life.

  Now my mom and sister are dead set on doing the exact same thing.

  As I get ready for the day, I replay the conversation from the night before in my mind... when they explained that my date for my sister’s wedding later this month was Peter Gunheight.

  A man they have pushed me to fall in love with many times.

  It’s never worked. It never will work.

  No matter how many times we’re paired off together, there’s no way I’d ever be with a man like him.

  Peter believes that money makes a man, and the fact that I’m not impressed by his wealth infuriates him.

  Which makes him want me all the more.

  And makes me want to run for the hills.

  I want a man who does something he loves--just because he loves it. The same way I play my music because it’s a part of my soul.

  That man would need to be the total opposite of someone my parents would set me up with. I want a man who values honor above material possessions; respect above validation from his peers; stoicism and honesty over falseness.

  I’ve just never found a man like that before… but if I did? I wouldn’t hold back. I’d give him all of me.

  Last night, my parents and sister wouldn’t let Peter’s name drop and it was the end of the line.

  I think their insistence is the straw that broke this exhausted cellist’s back. I need some breathing room. What that means exactly, I don’t know.

  Before as I leave the cabin for breakfast, I see a slip of paper under my door.

  It lists the available excursions for today’s port visit. We’re near Juneau, Alaska: a breathtaking place from what I saw last night when we pulled in. I had stood out on the deck, bundled up in my jacket, watching the mountainous landscape come into view.

  I want to see more of this place.

  And I want to get away fro
m my family for the day.

  And ever since I boarded the ship, I’ve been denied any opportunity to do anything or go anywhere. It may be a vacation, but there is no rest for me. Not if I finally want a seat in the Seattle Symphony.

  “You have your audition coming up,” my father has told me every time I suggest something other than practice, practice, practice.

  But today, as I look at the itinerary, I see a fishing excursion and it’s suddenly the very thing I have to do. Wide open waters, wind in my hair--it sounds like freedom.

  I’ve never been fishing. I’ve never even thought about fishing. But here I was in Alaska, in a beautiful city, a place I may never return. And for the price of $259 I could go on a four-hour fishing expedition.

  Without my family.

  However, when I mention this opportunity at breakfast my parents look at me as if I were a fool.

  “That’s not possible,” my father says. “You have to practice today.”

  “Exactly. Don’t be ridiculous, Alice,” Mom adds. I immediately feel my shoulders tighten and heat rise to my cheeks.

  This is why I need to get away for a day. They are suffocating me.

  Before I can even protest, my sister Anna pipes in, “Besides, we’re going to a glass-blowing workshop today. Not fishing.”

  “I didn’t say I was going with you. I’m going by myself,” I say.

  My parents exchange a look that says no way, and I know they’re as invested in my music as I am--probably more so--but I’ve had enough.

  I set down my napkin and tell them that I’ll see them this evening.

  My mother stands up from the table. “Sit back down, Alice. Who do you think you are, ordering us around like that?”

  “Mother,” I say coolly, having no interest in fighting. “I’m letting you know that today, I will not be following the practice schedule. Today I want to take a break. All this hovering is stressing me out, and I don’t need that right now. I need a day off or my audition in two weeks will end just like the last two. I won’t get a spot in the symphony.”