Page 50 of Christmas Harbor Secrets
They kept heading north.
He told himself it was tactical—to let the heat die down, to avoid detection—but the truth was, he didn’t have another plan. The fuel gauge dipped closer to empty. He needed the hum of the sea and the bite of salt air to keep from shattering under the weight of everything he couldn’t fix.
“We left so fast we couldn’t fill up.” He pounded the dash. “Those blasted tanks could’ve gotten us 3,000 miles.”
When he finally turned, Isobel sat on the couch, her knees drawn up, arms wrapped tight. She looked small there in the dark, her hair catching stray threads of moonlight. He left them on autopilot with no ships in sight and sat beside her, not touching but close enough that he could feel the warmth coming off her in waves.
“Should eat something,” he said, though his own stomach felt like it was cinched with wire.
She gave a soft, humorless laugh. “Not really hungry for rations.”
He huffed a sound that might’ve been a laugh if his heart hadn’t been so heavy. “Fair.”
Silence lingered, soft but weighted. The sea rocked them like an old cradle—slow, steady, relentless.
Rone flicked on the radio. “See if there’s any chatter on the VHF.”
Music broke through, a holiday tune that made the darkness fade to gray.
“You know,” she said quietly, “I used to love Christmas. My dad and I would chop down a tree from the woods behind our cabin. He’d make cocoa so thick it was practically syrup, and we’d sit by the fire stringing popcorn and cranberries until our fingers hurt.”
He listened, the ache in her voice cutting deeper than the cold wind.
“Every year,” she went on, eyes lost somewhere in the dark, “we’d exchange one present on Christmas Eve. Had to be handmade. He once whittled me a reindeer out of driftwood.” Her mouth lifted slightly. “Still have it.”
He swallowed hard, feeling that old emptiness stir in his chest—the one that never quite went away. “That sounds… incredible.”
She looked over at him, her expression soft, open. “What about you?”
He let out a long breath. “No traditions. My parents didn’t do holidays. Didn’t do much of anything together, actually. I think they forgot I was there most of the time.” His voice roughened, old memories surfacing like wreckage. “My dad used to say I was an accident that never got cleaned up.”
Isobel reached out and rested her hand on his arm. The touch was barely there, but it undid him anyway.
“Then they missed out, because I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who’s fought harder for people who didn’t deserve it.”
He turned his head, their faces inches apart. The sea rocked beneath them, slow and hypnotic. “I don’t know about that.”
“I do.”
Her certainty landed like warmth in a place that had been cold too long. He wanted to believe it. Wanted to believe her.
He reached for her hand, his fingers brushing hers. “Then next Christmas,” he said, voice low, raw, “you’ll be back at that lake house with your dad. I’ll make sure of it.”
Her lips curved. “Only if you promise to spend it with us.”
Something inside him loosened. “Deal.”
For a moment, it was easy to imagine it—snow on the windowsills, laughter, a fire crackling somewhere safe and far away from all this.
Then the boat shifted, a small, subtle motion that didn’t fit the rhythm of the sea. The hairs on the back of his neck lifted.
Rone turned his head toward the dark horizon.
Far off, barely visible against the strip of moonlight on the water, a single green navigation light blinked. Once. Twice.
Then went dark.
CHAPTER TEN
