It Happened One Summer (It Happened One Summer 1)

“You’re even more quiet than usual,” Fox remarked, leaning back so far in his chair, it was a wonder he didn’t topple over. He wouldn’t, though, Brendan knew. His best friend and relief skipper of the Della Ray rarely made a misstep. In that way, he lived up to his name. “You got crabs on the brain, Cap?”

Brendan grunted, looking across the street again.

If he didn’t have crabs on the brain, he sure as shit needed to put them there. In a couple of weeks, they would be making the journey to the Bering Sea for the season. For two weeks after that, they’d be hunting in those frigid yet familiar waters, doing their best to fill the belly of the boat with enough crab to support their team of six until next year.

Every crew member and deckhand of the Della Ray had year-round fishing jobs working out of Westport Harbor in addition to participating in the season, but king crab was their payday, and Brendan’s men counted on him to deliver.

“Been studying the maps,” Brendan said finally, forcing himself to focus on the conversation and not the building across the way. “Got a feeling the Russians are going to set their pots where we dropped ours last year, figuring it’s tried and true. But the season is earlier than ever this year, and the tides are more volatile. Nothing is surefire.”

Fox considered that. “You’re thinking of heading farther west?”

“North.” They traded a knowing look, both of them aware of the rougher waters that lay in that direction. “Can’t think of a crew that’s had much luck up toward St. Lawrence Island in several years. But I’ve got a hunch.”

“Hey. Your hunches have always made my bank account happy.” He dropped forward, clinked his bottle of Bud against Brendan’s. “Let’s do the damn thing.”

Brendan nodded, content to let the silence settle.

But he noticed that Fox seemed to be battling a smile. “You got something to say?” Brendan finally asked.

Fox’s mouth spread into the smile that made him popular with women. In fact, he hadn’t been at No Name on Sunday night because he’d taken a trip to Seattle to see a woman he’d met online. Seeing as he’d spent two nights there, Brendan had to assume the date had been . . . successful, though he’d cut his tongue out before asking for details. That kind of thing was better off left private.

For some reason, the fact that his best friend was popular with women was annoying him today more than usual. He couldn’t fathom why.

“I might have something to say,” Fox answered, in a way that presumed he did. “Took a walk up to the harbor this morning. Heard we’ve got some LA transplants in old Westport. Word is you had a little battle of wills with one of them.”

“Who said?”

His friend shrugged. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Someone on the crew, then. Sanders.”

Fox was visibly enjoying himself. “You’re staring a hole through the window of No Name, Cap.” There was a stupid dimple in his relief skipper’s cheek. Had it always been there? Did women like shit like that? “Heard she didn’t back down from your death stare.”

Brendan was disgusted. Mostly because he was right. Piper hadn’t backed down from it. Not last night and not this morning. “You sound like a teenage girl gossiping at her first sleepover.”

That got a laugh out of Fox. But his friend went back to drinking his beer for a moment, his smile losing some of its enthusiasm. “It’s okay, you know,” he said, keeping his voice low in deference to the other customers waiting for their orders. “It’s been seven years, man.”

“I know how long it’s been.”

“Okay.” Fox relented, knowing him well enough to drop the subject. Not the subject of his wife. But the subject of . . . moving on. At some point, near or far. Even the glimmer of that conversation made him nervous. Like everything else in his life, he’d remained married in his mind since she’d passed, because it had become a habit. A routine. A comfort of sorts. So he wasn’t welcoming the possibility.

Still, when they both rose to collect their orders a minute later and sat back down at the table, Brendan didn’t start eating right away. Instead, he found his hand fisted on the table, to the right of his plate. Fox saw it, too, and waited.

“Don’t go sniffing around the older one. Piper,” Brendan muttered. “And don’t ask me to explain why, either.”

Fox dipped his chin, his mouth in a serious line but his eyes merry as fuck. “Not a single sniff. You’ve got my word . . .” Brendan’s friend dropped the fork he’d just picked up, his attention riveted on something happening out in the street. “What in the sweet hell?”

Brendan’s head jerked around and pieced the situation together in the space of a second, his captain’s mind immediately searching for a solution. His life might run on schedules and routine, but that organized mentality was what made it easier for him to manage chaos. Problems arose, solutions presented themselves. Just another type of order.