Page 13 of Tender Heart
Brilliant.
I scoff at the thought and harrumph at the stubborn door. This is not getting me any closer to the mainland. With no hope of getting into the writing zone, I need to find a way across the water. I can’t wait another week. Between the man not speaking to me and having him trudge through the living space multiple times a day to tend to the light at the top of the lighthouse, I’m harried at best.
So much for Livvy’s plan.
What I wouldn’t do for a minute or two of Wi-Fi.
Spurred on, I decide to walk the shoreline of the western side of the island. Maybe I can sit on the jetty and inspiration will strike.
Stranger things have happened, right?
I make my way toward the rocky shoreline. And it’s when I’m almost at the jetty that I see a gravel path that swings left, heading south. The curious writer in me can’t resist. I duck down the path and pick up the pace. A hundred feet or so along I find a smaller ramp jutting out into the water. And tied to it...
A rowboat.
NowthisI can manage.
Who doesn’t know how to use a rowboat?
Not that I’ve ever captained one before. Is that the right word? Do you captain a rowboat, or is that too ridiculous?
Two oars lay in the center of the most seaworthy-looking rowboat I’ve ever seen. Its white hull and black-trimmed outline floats to the steady swell of the waves that softly caress the little cove it sits in. The nameLassieis in hand-painted black script letters.
Excited, I rush back up the path and into the house. I gather up my bag, phone, and my cap, just in case. Running out the door, I tug my coat from the hook and slam the door behind me.
Shit. So much for being covert.
I speed walk down to the rowboat and throw my belongings in before stepping down into the small vessel. I untie the two ropes holding my only hopes of escape in place. Sinking onto the bench seat, I run a hand over the handles of the oars. I can do this.
I send my heroines into raging battles with only their wit and a sword. Surely, I can handle a rowboat. If it took twenty minutes in Firefly to get here, I’m guessing it will take me an hour or so to row to the mainland. But math has never been my strong suit. In any case, I need to get off this island. I need supplies, and if Callum can’t be bothered to help, I’ll make my own way.
Sliding one oar over the edge, I hook it into the oarlock. It sinks up to its metal casing, securing it in place. After doing the same to the other oar, I lean over and push a hand against the ramp, sending the small boat away in the water. The thrill of something akin to main character energy at the start of an adventurous journey slips through my veins. I smile to myself, feeling in control of something for the first time in a long time.
I row the oars in synchronous movements through the water. And in no time, the ramp is behind me and I’m heading out into the stretch of sea between me and copious amounts of coffee and snacks. Thoughts of writing hordes of words completely sugared up spur me on faster.
Pretty soon, my arms ache. My grip aches, and I slow my pace. I look back, gauging how far I have come...
Around fifty feet from the shoreline. Ugh.
I amnotgiving up.
If this was my heroine, she would double down, summon her dragon, and get this done.
Wishing I had an actual dragon right now, I plow through the choppy water with so much determination it sends a hum through my ears.
As the hum turns to the drone of an engine, I swing my gaze over my shoulder.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Firefly roars up beside the rowboat, rocking it as I pretend not to notice his presence. I keep rowing. Gritting my teeth, I send the little boat faster. No way am I going back. I’m getting those supplies if it kills me. Studying the horizon and finding no sign of the mainland, I realize it absolutely could.
A rope flies onto the stern of my small vessel, circling the small hook. We slow to a halt, the rowboat bumping into the fishing trawler.
Heat floods my cheeks, and I scramble forward and toss the line off. Before I can grip the oars and row to my escape, Callum lands feet first in the boat. He ties the rope off and tugs me up from the bench seat with a harsh grip, curling his enormous hand around my upper arm.
“Of all the harebrained, half-witted, idiotic ideas.” His face is feral, his jaw clenched.
“Get your hands off me!” I tug furiously, wanting out of his grasp. My arm doesn’t budge. I twist and try again, only succeeding in ending up almost wrapped around him. His scent smacks into me. The same masculine essence that’s soaked into his bedding, into his pillows that I sleep on every night.
