Page 15 of Swept Away

“On this boat withme,” he says softly. His hair is falling forward again, one dark ringlet across his eye. “Did you think I was going to, like…”

He can’t seem to bring himself to finish the sentence; he’s looking at me with horror, and I feel another flash of irritation at the incredulity in his face.

“I’m going to hazard a guess that when we left The Anchor, you didn’t think twice about how nobody knew who you’d gone home with,” I say.

He shakes his head slowly. “Yeah, no. That didn’t cross my mind.”

“I did. I weighed up that risk. I made sure Marissa knew we were going to the marina. If I’m out late, I walk home with my keys in my hand, because you can do real damage with keys if a manattacks you. I cross the street if there’s a guy coming the other way after dark. And when I’m stuck in a small space with a man I don’t know, part of me will always ask the question, Am I safe?”

“I didn’t…” Zeke swallows. He looks pained, as if he’s bleeding from somewhere, as though he should be clutching a wound at his side. “I would never hurt you. I would never hurt anyone.”

He comes down the steps then, arms out to me. I raise my hand, likeuh-uh, no further. He stops stock-still immediately, eyes getting a little wider.

“You can have my knives,” he says, voice soft. “You can have all the knives. Keep them under your pillow. In your shoes. Wherever you like. I can be on a knife ban. I’ll come get you if anything needs chopping.”

I narrow my eyes. “I’m not being crazy. Do not act like I’m being crazy.”

“No, I don’t think that at all. This…” He pauses, trying to find the words. “This situation is crazy. I get why you wouldn’t trust me, especially after finding…” He nods at the knife.

My shoulders relax slightly at the acknowledgment. I watch him for a while, my eyes running over him—the soft curls, the handsome, youthful lines of his face.

“Did it occur to you, too? That I might have kidnapped you, or something?”

The corner of his lip quirks up. “No. Sorry. When you were waving a knife at me, I did start to feel abitlike I might have misread you, but no.” He lifts one shoulder in a shrug, and says, “I got your vibe last night. I know we don’t know each other well, but I feel like…I kind of do know you. In a way.”

My cheeks start to heat. “Let’s just…The knives can go back to living in the kitchen drawer,” I say.

“Sure. Yeah. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

I frown, lifting my chin slightly. “Is something burning?”

“Caramelizing,” he says automatically, then he tilts his head, smelling. “But maybe burning in about four seconds,” he adds, spinning toward the steps to the deck.

I watch him go, and take a quiet, shaky breath.

“I’m going to get changed,” I call after him as the door swings shut. “All right? Just give me some space.”

“Of course,” he calls back.

I stand there for a moment. I feel a little calmer. One problem at a time: I may be lost at sea, but I no longer think the man I’m with is a murderer. I’ll take that win right now. I turn back to the bedroom, pushing the door shut behind me.

The room looks different after that interaction. The sheath of knives on the floor is clearly a set of chef’s knives; the bed is back to being the one we spent our night in, disheveled and warm. My breath slowly steadying, I drag my bag out from the bottom of the wardrobe and rifle through it. I’m so sticky and hot now, I need shorts, but…Ugh. Why is it that when you’re packing a suitcase, you suddenly think you’ll wear things you haven’t worn in years? The only ones I’ve put in are denim shorts, too tight, but it’s that or staying in these thick jogging bottoms, so I wriggle on the shorts.

I brace myself before walking out onto the deck. Zeke smiles at me slightly warily. The episode with the knives has changed things. We were strangers, then lovers, and now we’re back to strangers again. He’s pulled the beanie back on, despite the sun’s heat, and is untangling the necklaces against his chest with one hand while he turns the vegetables on the barbecue. I remember feeling those necklaces trailing against my bare skin last night as he moved up my body to kiss me, and I look away sharply at the thought, staring out at the open sea.

Still no boats. I can’t believe there are still no other boats. The water seems even smoother than earlier, an endless, shining lake.

“Thank you,” I say abruptly. “For having that conversation with me.”

“Of course. I’m so sorry I didn’t…I should have made you feel safe,” he says quietly, looking at the barbecue.

“Well. Yes. But maybe that was a bit of a tall order right now,” I say, raising my eyebrows at the big, blue, yawning emptiness on all sides. I don’t want to undermine what I’ve said to him, but also, I suspect I might not have freaked out to that extent if we hadn’t been drifting helplessly in the middle of the ocean.

“We’ll be OK,” Zeke says after a moment. “People survive at sea for ages just holding on to a plank or a floaty coconut or something.”

Clearly he’s on a being-brave kick right now. Good for him. When I don’t answer, he sets his barbecue tongs down and unfolds one of the striped blue-and-white deck chairs jammed beside the steering wheel. I noticed those earlier, but left them where they were, because sitting down feels like settling in. The sea glimmers in grays and greens, sunlight catching in its surface like silver glitter. Against its depth, the deep blue of the sky is oddly two-dimensional, like a wall painted in one shade of cobalt.

“Sit down. Rest. Someone will rescue us soon,” Zeke says. “A ship will come by.”

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