Page 9 of Knockin' Boats
“It’s not that complicated either,” she muttered.
She didn’t get it. Not really. She hadn’t torpedoed a lifelong friendship and lost the most important person in her life. Why should Sawyer forgive me when I couldn’t forgive myself?
I hung up with Mel, and slid the spatula under the grilled cheese, ready to flip it.
“What the hell are you doing?” my stepdad called from the living room.
I nearly jumped out of my skin, fumbling the flip and fucking up the alignment of the bread and cheese.
Damn it.
I was supposed to be refining these recipes, not flubbing them. In the food boat I’d be running, there were bound to be distractions, and I couldn’t afford to make mistakes.
“Hey, Rick.”
Despite his insistence, I would never call him Dad. He’d adopted me and changed my name to match his, but my real father had been twice the man Rick ever would ever be.
Dad died of a sudden heart attack when I was ten. He’d only been forty-four but years of hard work on a commercial fishing boat had taken their toll.
Rick came six years later with his smarmy smile and his cash, winning my mother over with promises of comfort and security. But I’d always seen through the act to the guy he was underneath.
Egotistical. Manipulative. Controlling.
He thought money bought him everything, even family. But even though I lived in his house, we weren’t really father and son. We never would be.
“Are you reallycookingin the goddamn middle of the night? What’s wrong with you?”
I shrugged, lifting the sandwich and taking a bite, letting the savory mushroom and onion blend with the cheese on my tongue. Damn. It was delicious, but it could use a touch more seasoning to really make the flavors pop. I made a mental note to add a pinch more garlic.
Rick stalked over, snatching the sandwich from my hand.
“Hey!”
“Your mother is sleeping,” he said. “So was I before you did all your banging around.”
“When did you two get back?”
“Late, so we’retired.”
“Sorry. I was just finalizing some recipes for my food boat. I’m launching this weekend.”
I don’t know why I poked the bear. Maybe I was spoiling for a fight. If I couldn’t have one with Sawyer, my stepdad would do.
I could have predicted his sneer down to the yellow stain at the top of his incisor. “Still wasting your time playingTop Chef?”
“Nah, it’sMaster Chef,” I joked, knowing my attitude would only wind him up more. “Master Chef, because my boat is calledMaster Bites, which come to think of it, sort of sounds likemasturbates,don’t you think?”
“You’re an idiot.”
“That’s what I hear.”
He liftedmysandwich and took a bite. My. fucking. sandwich. Which reminded me, I had another on the stove. I whirled to turn it over in the skillet just before it burned.
Rick was quiet while I finished up the prosciutto and gouda. And no wonder, he was stuffing his face with my food that was such a waste of time.
I took a bite of my second sandwich before he could steal it too. Mm. This one was perfection. The salty bite of prosciutto whet my appetite for more, and Rick and I both wolfed our sandwiches in stony silence, exchanging glares.
“Did you at least take care of that booze run like I asked?”
