Page 3 of Their Reluctant Catch

“Maybe you just haven’t met the right person.” His light tone holds an edge.

The boat rocks, the waves slapping against the hull like they’re trying to remind us who’s in charge. I pull the trap onto the deck and check its contents.

Todd doesn’t say more, and neither do I. The sea doesn’t care about dreams or plans. She takes what she wants. Always has. Always will.

Chapter2

Savannah

The scraping of forks against plates grates on my nerves. It’s not loud, but it feels like a drill boring straight into my skull. Each scrape tightens the coil in my chest, winding it so tight it might snap. The kitchen’s quiet otherwise—no TV, no music, just me and Mom, the clatter of dishes, and the suffocating silence of two people pretending everything’s fine.

Mom glances at me from across the table, her dark-blond brows pulled low over those sharp, sky-blue eyes that miss nothing. She’s watching me, waiting for me to eat more than the three bites. The rest of the food I’ve pushed around my plate. She’s biting her tongue, trying not to say something that will make me snap. But Judith Demeyer isn’t a person to hold her tongue. She’s in her mid-fifties and as fit as she was when she raised the product of a one-night stand while finishing her degree in the evenings and holding down a full-time job.

“Anna.” She sets down her fork and folds her arms. “You’re not even trying.”

The bite of chicken freezes halfway to my mouth.Anna. It’s what she’s called me since I was a kid, and normally it feels like home. Right now, it feels like she thinks I’m a little child. I let my fork clatter to the table. “I’m trying, Mom.”

“No, you’re not.” She leans forward, uncrossing her arms and resting them on the table between us. “You’ve been here three weeks. You barely leave the house. You barely eat. You barely sleep. Your therapist called. You’ve missed an appointment for a second time in a row.” She gives me her ‘Mom is not mad, Mom is disappointed’ look, where she tucks in her chin and glances over her glasses.

Fuck, I hate that look. “There’s no use going to therapy. It doesn’t work.”

“Therapy isn’t working because you don’t want it to work.”

I shove back my chair, the legs scraping loudly against the floor. “You think I want to feel like this? You think I like being afraid of every little sound?” My voice cracks, betraying me, and I look away before she can see the tears welling up.

Mom sighs loud enough for me to hear. “Baby girl, you don’t want to hear this, but you need to. So. Sit. Back. Down. And. Listen.” Each of the words is punctuated, like she’s letting out all the patience she’s been holding onto.

Merely to be contrary, I resist.

“Sit down, child. Don’t run from this. Not again.” Her tone has softened somewhat but still has that no-nonsense edge that used to get me grounded as a kid.

I hate how it still works.

My hands shake as I grip the edge of the table and lower myself back into the chair. Instead of looking at her, I stare at the streaks of gravy on my plate.

We sit in tense silence for a minute, the kind of silence that makes my skin itch. I know what she’s going to say next. She’s going make me talk about it. Again.

“What happened at the shop—” she starts.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I say.

“Tough.” Her voice is sharp now, the softness gone. “You need to talk about it, Anna. Keeping it bottled up isn’t helping.”

I shake my head, the coil in my chest tightening until it feels like I can’t breathe. I open my mouth to tell her to drop it, but the words stick in my throat. Her gaze softens, but only a fraction. She pushes back her chair, stands, and picks up her plate and mine. I sit there, frozen, as she moves to the sink, rinsing them under the tap.

The kitchen feels too small, the walls pressing in on me. The smells of roast chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans with bacon, and gravy turn my stomach. I hate how my hands shake as I reach for the napkin on my lap, twisting it between my fingers. The memory of that day creeps in like a shadow, dark and heavy.

The shop smells like oil and metal, the way it always does. I love it. I love everything that has an engine, and working on limousines, sportscars, and old-timers is the best a girl can get.

“Rev it again.” Danny’s voice is muffled under the hood, and I press the gas pedal. The roar of the engine changes as Danny tunes, and I ease up on the gas.

“Perfect,” he calls then adds an oath followed by the clatter of metal on concrete. The fool dropped a wrench again. I laugh and shut down the engine. Just as I want to climb out of the dove-grey 1965 Aston Martin DB5, the shop door slams open and someone with a gruff voice calls, “Hands up! Nobody fucking move!”

The words cut like a knife, and my laugh dies on my lips.

My boss, Mitch, is behind the counter, and quietly tells them they can take what they want.

My heart pounding like a drum, I fumble for my phone and duck under the steering wheel, where I settle between the driver’s seat and the dashboard, quickly tapping in 911 before pressing the phone to my ear.

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