She hums to herself while turning on the blinker, and merges into the next lane. “A few times up north with my dad. River fishing, though, not ocean. I never really caught anything.”
“That’s because it’s called fishing, not catching, Ginger Snap. Sometimes you’re lucky and sometimes you’re not.”
“Right.” She shifts in her seat and rests her elbow on the door, fingers twisting the ends of her ponytail. “Pretty sure this’ll be different than your usual day of fishing, too. I assume you’re not sacked out in lounge chairs while someone brings you sandwiches and beer.”
“Uh, no.”
“So tell me, Finn. What do you guys do? Do you just throw some lines in the water and wait?”
“Some do.”
“But not you guys.”
I shake my head. “Linda is a seiner, so we fish with nets.”
“Nets, right.” She pauses, looking over at me. “Wait, who’s the captain of your boat?”
“That’d be me, Einstein.”
She gives me a cheeky grin. “Can I call you Captain?”
“No.”
“Can I be your first mate? Will you swab my decks?”
I laugh as she wiggles in her seat. “You’ve lost your damn mind.”
“Just trying to speak your language, Huckleberry.” She merges onto the freeway and spares me a tiny glance once we’re settled in the fast lane. “Okay, we have a little drive before we get to Point Loma. It’s time for you to school me in the art of Vancouver Island fishing.”
I look out at the passing scenery: the blur of the freeway, the houses rushing by, the palm trees. The sky is just starting to lighten up at the edges and there’s something so peaceful about being out here like this. And I’m realizing that I sort of do want to tell Harlow about life on the boat. I like talking to her, and the time we spend together is pretty much the only time I’m not worrying myself toward an ulcer.
“So first we have to be on the fish,” I start, my thumb tracing the fancy emblem on the dashboard. “That means we locate a school in the water. Then we drop the nets and circle the school. When the fish are surrounded, we cinch up the bottom and the fish are trapped inside. Basic concept, but there’s a ton to do besides that. When we aren’t actually fishing, someone has to check the float line and floats, the lead lines, make sure there aren’t any holes in the nets, as well as the power skiff and all the other electrical and hydraulic equipment. The skiff used to pull the nets up is run on equipment powered by the auxiliary engine. Which is why we have to have both engines in working order and why it’s so devastating when one goes down.” I pause and look at her again, certain she has to have zoned out. She hasn’t. “You’re still listening? That’s a miracle.”
“Well, it’s not like twittering or shuffling papers at NBC,” she teases. “But I am kind of fascinated by what you do all day. Feel free to add the little details, if you want, like how you guys do all of this with your shirts off and the ocean sprays your muscles so you glisten in the sun. Just to help with the visual a little.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“I assume your days are pretty long, huh?”
“Start working when it’s light, stop when it’s not. Normally I’m up before the sun, without an alarm, but I swear my internal clock is a mess here. Well,” I say, smiling around my coffee cup, “unless you’re on the porch at dawn to wake me up.”
We go on like that for a while as the beautiful scenery zooms past us, and before I realize it Harlow’s pulled into a parking lot and shut off the engine.
“Well, and look, the sun is here to greet us.”
I look out the windshield and point to the forty-three-foot diesel docked in the harbor. “That the one we’re on today?”
“That’s right, Captain.”
I give her a playfully reprimanding look and then say, “You ready to get schooled, Ginger Snap?”
She laughs and drops her keys into her bag. “I’m ready for whatever you’ve got, Sunshine.”
Chapter ELEVEN
Harlow
THE BOAT SEEMS ginormous, but Finn climbs aboard as if he’s stepping onto a dinky rowboat. Is it my imagination, or does he seem taller on deck? I stare at him while he talks to the captain, absently rubbing my finger over my bottom lip, remembering the teasing slide of his teeth when he kissed me at Oliver’s two days ago.
I swear my pulse hasn’t calmed down since—because it wasn’t just a kiss, it was a confession. That kiss told me I’m not the only one who’s moved into Feelings Territory. Now my mind is a pile of unfamiliar thoughts: If we both feel something, are we going to try to make it into a relationship? Finn argued against every idea I had to rescue his business, but if he signs on for the Adventure Channel show, then according to the contract, we can’t be together. And if he turns down the television show, he’ll most likely lose his family business and not be in the best mood for a new relationship anyway.
As the engine chugs and pulls us away from the dock and into the open water, my brain is a mess, my body is on fire for this hot fisherman version of Finn (which—I giddily recall—is everyday Finn) . . . and I have no idea how to handle a rod and reel as big as the one he retrieves for me.
He hands it over silently, giving me a patronizing pat on the head, and we step closer to listen to the safety guidelines with the other dozen tourists gathered on the deck. I expected Finn to space out during this, or carefully slip away to go check out the boat, but he seems riveted. Whether he’s seeing how sportfishing is handled on a professional level, or he’s just that in love with fishing, I can’t tell. But I love that he isn’t acting like it’s beneath him. He’s excited, even for this little half-day trip.
When Captain Steve has finished his spiel, we find a spot at the back corner of the boat, and Finn works quietly with the wind whipping his fleece flush against his chest. He sets up our rods, adjusts my line and my reel, and then leaves, telling me to “hang on.” A few minutes later, Finn returns with a pair of boots in one hand and a baseball cap with the boat’s logo in the other.
“It gets messy,” he says. He hands me the boots and puts the cap on my head, carefully feeding my ponytail through the back, whispering, “There,” once it’s situated. His hazel eyes dip down to my mouth, as if he’s considering kissing me again, but when he blinks, the look is gone. “Ready?”