Page 62 of Unmoored

Am I?Then, a second later, the next thought hits.Fuck. I am.I’m just so used to taking it all and never saying a word of complaint. And that’s not how you build a team, much less… well, whatever this is going to be.

Kieran smiles crookedly at me. “Yeah,” he says, answering whatever the hell he sees on my face.

“Yeah,” I murmur back, nodding slowly. I want him here. And I’m going to learn how to tell him that, too. “Uh… anyway. Thank you.”

Kieran just winks and raises his drink. “Welcome to the brotherhood. Let yourself be mad when you need to be mad. Sure I can’t get you one?”

I laugh. “Oh, what the hell, may as well. Sure. Thanks.”

Kieran claps my shoulder. “That’s the spirit!” he cheers me on. Just as he grabs the cocktail shaker, he almost drops it. “Hey, look! That way!”

I lean forward to peer through the kitchen window, and then my jaw drops. It’s—holy shit, they weren’t lying. It’s a bathtub sitting on top of a sheet of metal, just casually puttering on by.

“He’ll be headed to the race start point,” Kieran says, laughing at the look on my face. He slams the shaker together and starts to vigorously rattle it between both hands, turning around to toss it behind his back with a flourish. “We’d better hurry up and get back on deck. Trust me: the real fun part is seeing who sinks before the starting line.”

He pours my drink as one of the guys hollers for us to come see something. I’m the first one to scramble down the hall, but when we’re halfway there, the microwave dings. I spin on my heel and Kieran collides with me, but somehow manages to grab both drinks and keep them safe.

The energy is high, and this time, I can’t help but get swept up in it.

“Come join us?—”

“I will!” I promise, rushing for the microwave. “Just gonna get these?—”

“I’ve got your drink!” Kieran hollers, like I’ve forgotten in the last three seconds.

“I know! I’ll be right there, let me know if anyone’s sinking!” Then I knock on wood, because if Murph were here, he’d have something to say about that.

And it won’t be long before heishere, and he does, and I’ll be able to laugh with him. Because at the end of the day, Murph will make sure everything turns out okay.

His heart is in the right place, but he can’t read my mind. I have to step up to the plate, too. And I’ve spent a long time practicingnotdoing that, to keep things working with a man who never deserved half the effort I put in.

I don’t think it’ll even be that hard, once I overcome my own initial resistance. I just need to tell Murph the truth about what I need from him, that’s all. And if there’s one thing Murph can be trusted with… it’s the truth.

ChapterTwenty-Three

MURPH

“Still not tellingme where we’re going?” I grunt.

I’m trying my best not to bite my client’s head off. George is stressed, of course. It’s one of the most important days of his life. But he’s also the kind of guy who’s naturally extremely… well, for lack of a better word,punchable.

“No. Just head for the strait,” George says, his voice clipped as he keeps his arms tightly folded, standing right in the middle of the huge wedding arch, covered in white flowers. “I’ll tell you where to go from there.”

“Tell me where you’dlikeme to go, and I’ll tell you if I’ll do it,” I correct him. I still don’t even know the name of his soon-to-be fiancé, but that part doesn’t matter. I’m the skipper on board this vessel, and I’m responsible for everyone’s safety—including the passersby gawping at the spectacle I’m facilitating.

George huffs and gets all fussy, but his event planner, Meghan—and I still can’t believe he has an event planner on board—coaxes him into the corner for another run-through of the script in hushed mumbles.

Normally I’d never agree to set off without knowing where we’re going… and none of this is remotely normal. But I still love being out on the water, with a customer on board.

I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of it… even if I’m pretty tired of the customer in question. Good thing I’m getting all that danger pay, navigating through these crowded waters. Most people are anchored, but anyone who’s not is staring too hard at us to watch where they’re heading.

And I can’t blame them.

It turns out that when he saidlove barge, he meant it. There’s the huge arch covered in fake white roses, of course. But there’s also rose petals strewn across the barge, and gaudy fairy lights—I vetoed the candles. There’s fake topiary hedges, and a plastic bench made to look like old concrete.

He’s basically created some kind of hideous, Italian-style garden out of plastic and thin air, on my poor barge. And did I mention the giant parasol at the back of the barge, to keep the half a dozen violinists from fainting in the sun?

Yeah. There are half a dozen violinists on my boat. I don’t know what the fuck is going on—so not knowing where we’re going is pretty much par for the course.

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