Page 12 of Harbor Master

I’ve never been shut up with a cupcake before. I like it. The cake is spongy, the icing buttery and sweet, and Cocoa places what’s left on the wall, then picks a crumb from my beard as I chew. She wipes a smear of icing off my lip, then licks her thumb.

God.

My hips twitch up. Can’t help it.

And Cocoa’s grin is pure triumph. She grinds down against my lap, arms looping around my neck, and when she leans in to whisper, her breath is hot on my ear.

“Let’s blow off the memory tour. We can come back tomorrow after you’re done with work.”

Can we?

Should we?

Shit, I don’t know. I take my time to swallow, because I can’t think straight with her squirming on me like this. My thoughts jangle in my skull like wind chimes.

“No funny business,” I scrape out, and if Cocoa is disappointed, she hides it well. Her nod is brisk, and she leans back in my arms, drawing a cross over her heart.

“No funny business. I promise.”

Because this attraction is clear—undeniable, really—but she’s still relying on me. One of us needs to keep a cool head.

So we’ll hang out if she wants, but I’ll keep my hands to myself.

Just as soon as we finish this cupcake.

Five

Cocoa

Days turn into weeks, and I slot way too easily into the harbor master’s life. It’s like there’s a Cocoa-shaped hole in his cottage and his routine, and if we’ve stopped trying so hard to jog my memory, if we’re relaxing into this new status quo… well, I won’t be the one to complain.

No one in Sweet Cherry Cove and the surrounding towns recognizes me. No sights or sounds or smells have shocked my memory back. We’ve put up posters, and had check ups with Dr Nahum. Mac even tried hypnotizing me one night, following along with a YouTube tutorial to get my memory back. The blaring ad for take out delivery shocked us out of it.

And… nothing. Nada. But you know the worst part?

I’m not sure that I care.

Whereverhomeis, it can’t be better than this. I’m like a stray cat who lucked into a mansion, suddenly pampered with a velvet cushion and as many cuddles as I could want. Would it be so terrible if I stayed?

“Hey, sailor.”

Mac glances up from where he’s coiling a thick rope on the jetty. He doesn’t smile when he sees me—this man’s face is set in stone—but his eyes soften at the corners. Biceps flex as he works. Maybe he likes it when I bother him at work after all.

The sea is flat as a mirror, the boats ghostly still beneath the pale sky. Out from the marina, a seal head bobs, watching us. It’s a sticky-hot day.

Mac wipes an arm over his forehead. “Did you get bored in the diner?”

Yup. And lonely. Sweet Cherry Cove is a cute seaside town, but knowing that Mac is nearby and not going to him drives me crazy. Was I this needy in my previous life? Or is it all down to the harbor master?

His blue plaid shirt is rolled to the elbows, and his forearms are corded with muscle, dusted with dark hair. Later, when it gets too hot to bear, he’ll strip down to his undershirt. So if I’m antsy, who can blame me?

“I missed you.”

Mac blinks. He’s always shocked when I say stuff like that, always taken aback. As though I don’t trail after him around town like a puppy, with cartoon love hearts in my eyes. As though I don’t spend every night clinging to the wooden frame of his single guest bed, holding on by my fingernails so I don’t sprint through the cottage and burst into his bedroom.

Would he mind?

Would he send me away?

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