Something low in my belly flips, and I frown as the air in my lungs peters out.
He hauls me toward the cruiser, shoving me up the side ladder, his hand unceremoniously on my ass pushing me upward. With a squeak, I land inside the trawler on my rear.He’s on deck a second later, tying the rowboat behind Firefly. Scowling, he turns us around and heads back to shore.
Dammit.
He says nothing as we moor, and I climb onto the jetty as my bag is tossed in my direction. I catch it, faltering on my feet as awkwardness sinks in. Standing like a stunned idiot as he hauls the rowboat from the water and onto the jetty like it weighs nothing, I close my gaping mouth.
All I can think of as he stalks past me, heading for the lighthouse, ishe spoke to me.
I got seven words out of Callum McCreary.
And the fact that I was hauled against him, my body against his, surrounded by his body. Literally hanging from his big bear hand.
Intrigued and breathless for reasons I can’t pin down, I follow at his back all the way to the house. He disappears into his cottage, and I pad inside the lighthouse. When I shut the front door behind me, I lean against it, reliving the last five minutes on repeat. It’s been an eon since I touched a man. Since one touched me. It’s only natural to have some sort of physical reaction. He’s all grabby-grabby, and I’m like a rag doll in his hold.
I shake my head, dislodging the thought.
I have no intention of getting anywhere close to Callum McCreary.
Big bear hands or not.
Handsome damn scowl face, my ass.
I’m here to write.
Nothing else.
The door to the cottage slams and I flinch. I walk to the kitchen window, only to see him stalk his way toward the tree line of the small forest that takes up the center of the island. Good. That’s good.The further away, the better, grumpy ass.
Defeated and no closer to fixing my food problems, I sink onto the sofa. Running my gaze over the bookshelves, I study the tomes that Callum deems worthy of his small library. Some reference texts, some nautical, other generic encyclopedias. A small section of thrillers sits on the bottom shelf. A few classics, like Charles Dickens and Mark Twain, take up space on the higher shelves.
The rest of the shelf houses gadgets. Something that looks like a sextant. A wooden box with the lid open holds a brass compass that looks antique. Curious, I rise and move to the shelves. I run a finger over the brass, marking it with a fingerprint. “Dammit.”
Plucking up the hem of my shirt, I polish it back to a shine. Everything about this place has my back up. Like I’m an intruder.
I guess I am.
Guilt follows me with every decision I make. Every meal I eat that should have been his. Every night I sleep in his bed. Dwell in his home. I wish I could give something back, make amends for the intrusion in some way.
Then I remember the fire in those eyes, the way he looked at me like I’m the stupidest girl in the world when he hauled my ass out of that boat. The branding touch of his huge mitts on my ass. My face flushes again.
Groaning, I flop back on the sofa.
Deep into my wallowing stage of self-pity, I lie there, staring up at the ceiling.
The front door opens, and heavy footsteps trod toward where I lie.
“Please leave me to my humiliation, Callum.”
He doesn’t.
Of course he doesn’t.
Instead, he plants himself at the end of the sofa, arms crossed, scowl firmly fixed as his eyes burn into mine.
“Seven a.m. Sharp. Jetty. If you’re late, I will leave without you.”
Without another word, he stalks from the house, slamming the door behind him.
