NautiCal (Forever Wilde 8)

I looked out the window to confirm before I said, “We’re going slower than the speed of a newborn kitten at rest, and there’s no one around us for miles. What exactly do you think a quick conversation is going to do to cause—”

“Fine. Make your phone call or whatever you need to do, then come back down to my stateroom,” he said. “We’ll figure out the sleeping situation, and when we arrive at Turshall Cay, you can see about getting yourself some supplies for the week.”

I froze. I could afford toiletries, a couple of cheap T-shirts, and a pair of swim trunks, but that was where my funds ended. My credit cards and passport were back at St. Mitz, safely stored in a locker at the charter company’s office. I didn’t make a habit of carrying anything valuable to a club or hostel, just enough to pay cash for drinks and a night’s stay.

“Um, yeah. Sure,” I said, before moving toward the fridge. “Thanks again for putting me up.”

“Mpfh,” he grunted before heading back down the stairs.

“Ooookay, then,” I muttered to myself before finding a spot on the sofa in the living area. The sliding doors were partially open, letting in the familiar scent of the ocean in the night air. I took a deep breath and tried to steady myself.

It was much too late to call home, but I could at least shoot Doc and Grandpa a quick text telling them what was going on. Once I let go of the stress from the day’s events, I brought up my texts.

Doc: Didn’t hear from you yesterday. Assume job ran late. All is well here. Love you.

Doc: Major is worried about you. Send us a text or he might initiate military-backed retrieval sequence.

West: Dude, answer your damned phone before Grandpa loses his shit.

Nico: What do you call that sailor knot that looks like a ball? I want to make one for Pippa.

Grandpa: I read an article today about a man who was lost at sea. Oh wait, that was my precious baby. My bad.

Saint: Why is Grandpa asking Otto and me about maritime rescue? Also, there’s an old inn in St. Mitz that used to use old metal room keys in the shape of tropical fish. I want to give one to Augie. Find out if they’ll sell you one and how much they want for it.

Sassy: Can I borrow your clarinet? Don’t ask any questions.

Doc: At what point do I admit to you that I can do that Find My iPhone thing with your phone since you’re still on our family plan?

Grandpa: Doc says you were safely on St. Mitz last night, but you’re back out to sea today. What that says to me is you don’t care anymore about two old men who may not live to see their grandson return from the deep.

Doc: Dammit, he hit send before I could get the phone out of his hand. Just let us know you’re alive for Pete’s sake.

Sassy: Wait. Did you play flute or clarinet? Either way, I need it.

Charlie: What’s the American phrase for a nixer - like, doing work for cash to avoid taxes? Hudson says doing it under the table, but I think that’s a sex thing and he’s taking the piss.

Sassy: Otto says you played the drums. That can’t be right.

Hallie: Send me the website for Bimbo Dan’s again. My friend wants to book a sailing trip with you and I expect a kickback.

Sassy: Never mind. Stevie has a flute I can use. Even though he wasn’t in band. Weird.

By the time I finished reading all the missed texts, I was laughing so hard I was crying. Worth reappeared at the top of the stairs with a frown. “You’re going to wake everyone on board.”

“Oh, sorry,” I said, sitting up from my slouch and sending a quick text to tell them I was okay. “Just catching up on messages from my crazy family. Like I said, I’m one of ten children. It’s a little nuts.”

Worth’s eyes widened in surprise. “You weren’t kidding about there being ten of you? Jesus. Was it a religious thing?”

“No. My mom is kind of a freak for natural methods, and unfortunately those don’t work great for contraception.”

Worth’s nostrils flared and he pursed his lips together. “Yes, well. I’d like to sort out the sleeping situation so…” He took another look at me before clearing his throat and turning back to the stairs. “Come to bed, Cal.”

The words sounded intimate in a way I’d never heard before—at least I’d never heard them aimed at me. It was oddly exciting, as if… as if we were lovers and he was calling me to bed because he wanted me there with him, to hold and love on. The idea of such a buttoned-up corporate type being vulnerable in that way almost made me laugh. A man like Jonathan Worthington was way more likely to tell his lovers to come the way a hunter would tell his dog to fetch.