Page 28 of Spring Tide

Holy shit. The boy I’ve been crushing on for months now is kind of, sort of, asking me out. And I’m ... trying to invent a reason to say no. Fuck that.

“Could I bring some friends along?”

His smirk melts into a full-out grin. “The more, the merrier.”

“Then count me in.” My gaze darts around the room. I quickly spot Minh in the back corner, fully engrossed in a conversation with their head coach. “You can just text me the details.”

He plucks the phone from my outstretched hand. “I will.”

When he passes it back, his warm palm grazes mine. Those long, calloused fingers gently tap against the back of my hand. With one last caress along the side of my index finger, he slides his arm back to his side as a tiny shiver dots up my spine.

There’s officially no doubt about it; this man knows exactly how to use his hands.

10

LUCA

The pier isa slippery fucking disaster today. It’s as if the universe is hell-bent on destroying any last semblance of my recovery. The slick combination of sand, salt water, and rotting wood has officially taken its toll.

Suffice it to say, I’ve eaten shit twice already this afternoon.

Now, my knee is a throbbing, swollen knot inside my jeans. My hands are shaking from the pain. And my head, it’s a swirling vortex of frustrated energy. By the time I’m finished with my shift, I foresee a long night of suffering. Not to mention, tomorrow’s game is likely to be a shitshow.

I’m in desperate need of an emergency session with Harper. I don’t understand how she forces me to relax so easily—to fall asleep beneath the gentle, unyielding pressure of her fingertips. Believe it or not, it’s typically impossible for me to feel comfortable in someone else’s space.

With Harper, it’s like I don’t have a choice. I’m entranced by that sea of pillows and her soft, nimble hands. Plus, I appreciate the way she responds to my ...attitude. Because apparently, that’s what I have. The feisty, ripe attitude of her deceased family pet.

“You look like shit, son,” Pawel calls out in his matter-of-fact tone. “Why don’t you head out early, and I can close up?”

My boss isn’t usually this perceptive, but it’s painfully obvious that I’m reeling. My brow is filled with sweat, my cheeks are burning with heat, and the bottom half of my jeans are fully drenched by the high tide.

Regardless, I ignore his offer. With one final shake of my head, I heave another box of equipment over my shoulder. This time, I make sure to brace myself on the rough polymer-coated pilings. Each one is spaced a few feet apart, so I grit my teeth and shuffle between them, careful not to lift up and slip on my ass again.

“I know you heard me, Luc.”

I carry on with my task, gathering a mixture of trash, old equipment, and tangled lines into their respective places.

“I’m not leaving early,” I mutter, wiping a stray bead of sweat from my eyelid. “I need the money.”

“I’m still paying you for the shift, boy.” Pawel shuffles behind me, clapping one hand on my shoulder and another on the crate. “But if you don’t leave, I’ll find a reason to dock your pay.”

“Bullshit.” My gaze drags over his weathered frame, with his frail hands, slumped posture, and graying tufts of hair. It’s no secret that the man is well past retirement age. “You need more rest than I do.”

“Do you forget that I’m a sailor?” He levels me with a harsh stare, his ocean-blue eyes swirling with tender resolve. “I’ve lived a thousand lifetimes, and I’ll live a thousand more. Plus, I’m not the one who’s injured.”

I wince, wildly unprepared to execute damage control. “But I-I’m not—”

“If you think I don’t see you, then you’re wrong.”

“Okay, it’s true,” I finally relent, puffing out a breath of panicked air. “I may be injured, but it’s more so just a temporary bruise. I’ll be fine, and I really need the hours, Pawel, so please don’t cut me out of the schedule because—”

“Calm down, boy.” He shrugs his windbreaker over his shoulders, flipping his hood at the first signs of rain. “No one’s cutting anyone out of anything. Get on home, and we’ll pretend this conversation never happened.”

I flinch as a lone raindrop lands on the bridge of my nose, a tiny wet splash flickering against my hot skin. “Don’t do me any favors.”

“I’m doin’ myself a favor,” he argues. “You’re no good to me if you’re out of commission.”

“Fine, I’ll leave.” I toss the damp equipment back into the crate, staring at the knotted pile of fishing line. “But I’m back Sunday morning, no excuses.”

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