Page 24 of Unmoored

Eden stands up straight and salutes. “Yes, skipper,” he bats his lashes. “Anything you say, sir.”

Fuuuck.

I raise my hand for a quick wave, and then I open the throttle to set a course for my barge. I only glance back when I’m almost out of sight around the corner of the island. There he is, still shielding his eyes with one hand as he watches me leave.

Eyes where you’re steering, boyo,I remind myself automatically, just like my old skipper used to.

I tear my gaze away, but I’m smiling. Eden is… well, he’s soEden. I’ve never met anyone like him. He might have only just drifted into my life, but I’m already dangerously close to forgetting what life was like before his flirty texts and cheeky smiles.

Apparently, time and tide aren’t the only things that wait for no man. My heart is setting its own course, and no forecast or tide table can help me now.

I just hope I’m ready for whatever the horizon has in store for us.

ChapterNine

EDEN

I lovethe smell of paint. To me, it means freedom.

Creating art is how I channel my excitement, passion, desire. It makes me dream big. With a brush in my hand, I can lose myself in a better world. But I don’t need an escape anymore—I need an outlet for the creative inspiration burning through my veins.

And it’s all because of Murph. I woke up to the vivid memory of his strong hands wrapped around my ribcage, his kisses stealing my breath away—and his soulful eyes always quietly watching.

Even the fastest cold shower ever didn’t shake my need to make art, make love, and make my life what it’s meant to be.

I squeeze the tiniest dot of red onto the white paint, stirring them together. Then, I start to layer clouds into the sky above the vision of Sunrise Island taking form on my canvas—transformed into pale shades that shine with tentative hope.

“Shadows,” I mutter to myself, fumbling for a finer brush to keep layering the colours on top of one another.

This is my first time creating whatever I want, whenever I want. And I don’t have to pay for it with my freedom. George loved telling strangers at cocktail parties that his dadgaveme a studio, and how much his family “supports the arts”. But it was always about his image, because he sure as hell didn’t support me.

The only reason he asked his dad about it was because he hated seeing my canvases and paint-splattered rags sullying the otherwise unused guest bedroom.

I take up space when I’m creating. Far from the neat, quiet, invisible trophy husband George wanted to turn me into—getting home by five o’clock every day to make him dinner, whether or not he showed up to eat it.

What an asshole. I hope the microwave meal cling film melts into his dinner every single day.

“Shit. Hold on,” I breathe out. I step back, and… my heart is sinking like a ten-tonne stone. Instead of the contrast I’d hoped would set the island apart, the skies are moody, even ominous. They dominate over the canvas, like a warning.

It’s just like George, isn’t it? If I don’t leave him behind, he’ll creep back into everything good. The tiniest bit of him absentmindedly spread across enough canvas will change the whole picture.

I swallow hard, shaking my head as I set down my brush and palette, grabbing a rag to wipe my hands.

Tap, tap, tap.

“Yoohoo!”

“Jesus!” I squeak as I whirl toward the window. Suddenly, I’m making eye contact with a stranger—an older lady with lavender hair—and she’s waving hello.

“Oh, lord,” I clutch my chest as I hurry to the front doors. “I’m going to need curtains.” The doors are stiff, but I throw my shoulder into them and they eventually budge. “Hello?”

“Hi!” My visitor grins as I poke my head out and clamber onto the front deck. She grabs hold of the edge of the boat to keep her kayak close. “Sorry, is this a good time?”

“Uh, yeah. Sure.” I sheepishly glance down at my paint-splattered jeans and T-shirt. After a couple of years in a penthouse, it’s taking me a minute to adjust to the idea that every passing kayaker can see me as much as I can see them. “Probably.”

“I see you’re busy. I won’t keep you,” she beams at me. “I just wanted to welcome you to the neighbourhood with pie. I’m Marianne, by the way.”

“I… Eden. Eden’s my name.” Where on Earth—or on a kayak, I suppose—would she stash a pie? I must have misheard. “Sorry, did you say?—”

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