Page 11 of Hot Buttered Rum

Chapter 6

The life vest was unwieldy and puffy. After several frustrating minutes of trying to paddle the canoe with it on, I pulled it off. I’d always been a good swimmer, and the water in the cove was nearly as calm as a swimming pool.

It took me a good twenty minutes to get my rhythm with the paddles, but once I got the hang of it, the canoe sailed over the glassy surface. I headed in the direction of the Manzanita trees, figuring I could relax in their shade for a bit.

The pointed front of the canoe dipped and popped back up as I traversed the gentle ripples rolling across the otherwise smooth surface. Cold water sprayed my face and arms each time the canoe slapped against the water.

Coco had been right. The closer I got to the trees, the more fish I saw swimming in iridescent schools of shimmering silver. I knew almost nothing about fish and wouldn’t know a trout from a salmon, but they were still fun to watch.

A layer of warm ocean air hovered over the water, and I could taste the salt on my lips. One particularly big tree jutted far out over the water, throwing out a nice, cool shade. I maneuvered the canoe to stand beneath it. I rested the paddle across the canoe and shoved the life jacket behind my head for a pillow.

My eyes drifted shut and I listened to the quiet lapping of the water against the roots and the trees gripping the shore. It seemed the trees were there not just to provide shade for a passing boat but to keep the sandy shore from melting away in a storm.

The thought of a storm sent my mind back to Turner. He had made more than a small impact on me. I couldn’t say that about any other man I’d met lately. It might just have been the similarities to the vision I had of my pirate character or it might just have been that I hadn’t met any man worthy of ‘impact’ in a long while. One thing was certain, I had never been with a man who knew my body so well, so quickly.

Even under the shade of the trees, a warm blush covered my skin just thinking about those hot, intimate moments pushed up against the wall with a tall, dark stranger’s hand pressed between my legs.

I decided the setting was the perfect place to think about my story. My mind was always so cluttered with work projects that I rarely had time to escape to my writing. The Silk Stocking Inn would be the perfect place. I was, as Coco had pointed out, unplugged for a few days, and I decided to take full advantage of it.

The gentle movement of the boat and the rhythmic sound of the waves rolling up on shore made it easy to drift off into a blissful state of drowsiness. My mind coasted back to the last part of my story where the pirate captain asked for the heroine to take his hand.

I was deep in thought and hadn’t noticed that the canoe had begun to rock back and forth until a cold splash of water hit my face and startled me from my daydreams. I sat straight up and wiped my eyes twice to clear the haze that clouded them. Only it wasn’t haze. It was fog. A deep, bone chilling fog had filled the entire cove. Even the dark red branches of the trees above my head were nearly erased by the thick mist. Although mist was far too faint of a word for the thick like cream soup fog. Ghostlike wisps of moisture trailed eerily through the gray cloud as heavy drops coated my skin.

I grabbed the paddle and shoved one end in the water to turn the canoe. As I spun around, I squinted through the nearly opaque haze, hoping to catch a glimpse of the inn. But it was no use. Coco had mentioned that bad weather rolled quickly in and out of the cove. I lowered my paddle and decided to wait it out.

Unfortunately, the canoe and the tide had a different idea.

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