Tell Me Our Story

“I’ll take those,” Jonathan said, reaching for them.

O’Hara let go and his gaze snapped over the water toward Mr Cranky. “He’s using his pirate hat to shovel water.”

Jonathan turned the dinghy and rowed hard, arms burning with each pull.

O’Hara frowned. “I thought you patched up that rowboat?”

“I’m not a boatwright. Maybe it sprang another leak.”

“Worse one, by the looks.”

O’Hara’s shoulders tensed as he focused on Mr Cranky, his jaw twitching, his breath catching.

Jonathan pulled water, harder and harder. He’d wanted to come home and quietly observe O’Hara and Savvy bantering, see their ease together. He’d wanted to watch O’Hara’s reaction when he stepped inside. He wanted . . . well, he hadn’t wanted to be caught up in a rescue mission in a damp dinghy, their only exchanges fuelled by worry.

He lifted the oars, sank them into the water, and pulled. Again. Again.

O’Hara let out a long breath. They were close. They’d make it. “Not gonna lie,” O’Hara called out to Mr Cranky in that charming, easy-going voice he’d perfected. “I expected better from a pirate.”

“Cheeky,” Jonathan said under his breath.

O’Hara’s gaze flashed briefly to his. The first sign of his dimple.

“I haven’t drowned yet,” Mr Cranky said, unloading another hat of water from his boat. “And you two took your sweet time getting out here.”

“Hey! Jonathan rowed his arse off. Manners.”

“He’d have rowed faster without you in the boat.”

“Are you suggesting he should’ve thrown me overboard?”

“I’m suggesting he should’ve made you jump out at the jetty!”

O’Hara looked at him quizzically. Jonathan had not for a single moment considered that.

He focused on pulling up alongside the sinking dinghy and tethered the boats together with his hands.

O’Hara offered his seat and jammed onto Jonathan’s so Mr Cranky could hoist himself into theirs. The sudden explosion of heat down his side made him jump. The boat rocked. Mr Cranky grunted and made it into their boat with a tight look. And then his face broke with pain as he looked at the ocean. His hat, wet and heavy, was sinking.

Jonathan picked up his oar and attempted to fish it out, but it was too far gone. The water wasn’t more than six meters deep here, so close to the island. On a clear day, he might have made out the rocks at the bottom, but not today. Still, he moved the boat, glimpsed the darker shape in the water and plunged his oar in for it.

“Too deep.”

Mr Cranky gripped the sides of the dinghy and shook his head.

“I know what you think. I’m a fool for coming out here. I’m a bored old man. But I’m not bored, I’m . . .” He stared into the water. His hat continued to sink. Around them the surface calmed and even the birds stopped squawking. “She doesn’t remember anymore. She doesn’t remember coming to the island the first time. Doesn’t remember giving me that hat. She dared me to wear it, you know. Tried every trick in her book. I wouldn’t. Not back then.” He blinked rapidly; his jaw squared as he forced it all back. “She always laughs when I wear it now, even though she can’t . . . remember.”

Mr Cranky grew quiet, lost in his thoughts. A pensive statue at the end of their boat, like a figurehead. O’Hara bowed his head beside him, and all Jonathan’s senses attuned to him. The gentle slope of his nose, the sigh spilling over his parted lips, the hair falling across his eyes. The lashes lowering, a dark kiss against pale cheeks.

This wasn’t . . .

Charybdis would not take this pirate’s last hope.

Jonathan settled his oar inside the boat, reached over his back and pulled off his cashmere sweater. He toed his shoes off and plucked at his shirt buttons. O’Hara shifted at his side. “Jonathan?”

O’Hara’s warmth seeped into him. Breath at his ear, the heat of an arm pressing against his, the shift of a thigh. The shirt came off, and O’Hara swallowed. Jonathan didn’t look over. Just peeled his pants off, and his socks, and bundled everything into O’Hara’s lap.

A palm landed tight on his thigh, five fingers urgent above his knee, his leather band ticklish. “Jonathan, don’t—”

He’d swum in worse. It might be cold, but it wasn’t dangerous.

The wristband shifted and Jonathan clamped a hand over O’Hara’s to still it. His watch butted up against O’Hara’s wrist. They both looked at it.

Slowly, Jonathan withdrew his hand and undid the buckle.

O’Hara dragged his hand off Jonathan’s thigh. “I’ll look after it.”

Jonathan looked into O’Hara’s face; he circled fingers around his hand and pulled his wrist close. Carefully, he strapped the frayed watch onto him.

O’Hara stared at the leather strap brushed up against his band.

Jonathan’s fingers lingered, then he pulled them back and the boat rocked as he stood. He gritted his teeth and dove.