Page 9 of Alaskan Blackout

“No,” he bit out the word brusquely. “I’m staying.”

In the distance, he heard a burst of feminine laughter carried on the wind and he swiveled on his boot heel to find its source.

Scanning the rolling waters, he spied a gray hardtop fishing vessel making its way through the harbor toward the dock where he stood. A few figures stood on the deck, their animated voices audible though the words were indistinct.

And before Levi could talk him out of staying in Alaska, Quinton made his excuses and disconnected the call. His phone was in his pocket by the time the name of the approaching vessel—theUn-Reel, painted in red letters on the bow—came into view.

Even in the gray light of early evening, Quint could discern McKenna’s features at the helm through the windscreen. She had her navigation lights on as she slowed the engine to steer into the slip, her attention focused on the berth. Six passengers stood around the open deck, canned beverages in hand as they chatted easily, unconcerned with navigation or helping their captain tie off.

Quinton was about to ask one of them to toss him a spring line so he could help secure her, but a couple of young dockhands ambled past him to take care of the job themselves.

“Looking good, McKenna,” one of them shouted as he reached toward the stern where a rope awaited just above a fender on the port side.

While the one dockworker secured to a cleat, the other called for a passenger on board to toss the bow line. The process was quick and painless, the maneuvers clearly well choreographed after ample practice. There was nothing for Quinton to do but remain out of the way while theUn-Reel’s passengers departed. The group finished their drinks, retrieved camera bags and extra jackets while thanking their captain for the outing.

The dockhands disappeared as quickly as they’d arrived. Soon, there was only McKenna aboard the boat while Quinton stood on pier watching as she shut off the lights and flipped a few other switches. He had no doubt that she’d spotted him earlier, but she didn’t acknowledge him until she stepped away from the bridge and out onto the open deck of the craft.

“I’m surprised to see you here.” She met his gaze briefly while she gathered the life vests, her face illuminated by the security lights at regular intervals down the dock.

Dressed in jeans and a simple black sweater with a bright yellow rain jacket over it, she wore her auburn hair in a low ponytail that rested on her shoulder. Long bangs brushed her brows as she bent forward to stow the life vests in a deck locker.

“No more surprised than I was to learn you weren’t coming into the bar today.” He leaned against the light post closest to her boat, unwilling to step aboard without an invitation.

A rueful grin tugged at her full lips. “As committed as I am to making a success of the Cyclone Shack, I do give myself a day off now and again.”

The sight of her smile, the sound of it in her voice shouldn’t have made his dark mood brighten so fast. What would it be like to meet this woman under other circumstances? If she wasn’t his brother’s stepsister, for instance.

His dark mood returned. Redoubling.

“You might have shared that with me yesterday. Saved me the trouble of interrogating your customers.” He watched as she latched the cabin doors and set the alarm before grabbing her keys, her movements around the watercraft as swift and efficient as when she worked at the bar.

“It’s the weekend,” she reminded him, tucking the keys in a gray canvas duffel she then looped over one shoulder. “Maybe I thought you’d have other plans.”

Seeing she must be about finished shutting down the vessel for the night, Quinton stepped closer to the boat to extend a hand to her.

She glanced from his face to his offered palm, then back again. As if she hesitated to touch him.

“When I said I’d be at the bar every day until I had an answer, I meant it,” he reminded her, holding her gaze while he waited for her to take his hand. Not abandoning the small nicety while a breeze ruffled her hair against her neck.

Of course she didn’t need his help off her boat. But would she ignore the gesture? Ignorehim?

When her cool fingers wrapped around his and squeezed, Quinton felt it more keenly than a kiss from any other woman. Especially because her dark blue eyes locked on to his and held. As if she was very aware that the touch reached past the boundaries they’d been keeping with each other.

Maybe that’s why he failed to release her as she stepped onto the dock beside him. For a charged moment, they held hands in the gray evening, breath mingling in the salty air.

Getting lost in Quinton Kingsley’s honey-colored eyes, McKenna told herself she would back away any second now.

She didn’t need the hassle of a man in her life now that she’d finally made peace with her solo existence in Dutch Harbor. She’d carved out a place for herself here after the shitshow that had been her life in California, and she wouldn’t allow anything to mess it up. Especially not someone who bore the Kingsley name. Loyalty to her brother demanded as much.

Even if she’d dreamed hot, sexy dreams of Quinton every night since he’d arrived in her life.

Part of the reason she hadn’t bothered telling him she wouldn’t be at the bar today was in a misguided effort to not think about him for a full twenty-four hours. Except he’d been a recurring theme in her mind all throughout the eight-hour bird-watching tour she’d conducted. Even as she steered her boat into rough waters to find the birds her group had sought, pointing out the best sighting grounds for Alaska’s much-sought-after bird, the whiskered auklet—she’d also been wondering what Quinton was doing back on the mainland.

“You’re wasting your time,” she reminded him now as she withdrew her hand. The rasp of his skin along hers, however briefly, sent a shock of awareness tingling through her. “You can visit the bar all you like or join all of my adventure tours. But I’m not spilling Clay’s secrets.”

She edged the strap of her duffel bag higher on one shoulder and then headed down the wharf toward the main pier, needing to put distance between them again. It was safer that way. She waved to a few dockworkers and fishermen she knew, the community of locals close-knit.

Quinton fell into step beside her. “It’s my time to waste. And since it’s the weekend, how about if we call a truce for the evening and I buy you dinner?”

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