Chapter 42: Reid
Two hours.
Two hours of nothing but open water and disappointment.
Not nothing exactly—there were dolphins earlier, even a basking shark that rolled slow as a ghost under the hull. The kind of sightings that usually earn a good day stamp in my head. But porpoises? The damn porpoises she’s been set on since morning? Nowhere.
Sloane’s pacing in the wheelhouse like a caged dog, her voice sharp enough to cut through the hum of the engine.
“This is a waste of time, Reid. We’ve circled twice. They’re gone. We should move to deeper water before the wind shifts.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. She’s not wrong. I can already feel the wind nosing at us, not enough to matter yet but enough to turn into something later. I sigh. “Fine. I’ll tell her.”
Sloane makes a noise of satisfaction, smug in that way she gets when she thinks she’s right.
I head down. Finn’s glued to Madeline’s side, leaning on the railing, inches away from her, like he’s taking this watch duty a little too seriously. I stop at the bottom of the steps, flick my eyes at him. “Go take a break.”
He doesn’t argue. Just shoots me a look I don’t bother reading and moves off.
Now it’s just her.
She’s hunched over the rail with her notebook and maps spread out like the sea is a desk she can conquer if she stares hard enough. Her brows are drawn tight, that little crease between them deepening as she mutters to herself. She’s frowning, but it’s… softer somehow. Not anger. More like stubborn hope.
“They should be here,” she whispers, more to the paper than to me. “We should see them soon.”
That pout. Christ. She probably doesn’t even know she’s doing it.
I clear my throat, forcing the words out flat, professional. “We should probably move on. Go find something else.”
Her head snaps up. Green eyes wide, sharp with shock. “What? No.” She’s on her feet in a second, clutching the railing like it’ll back her up. “Please, Reid. If they had calves with them, they wouldn’t have made it much farther. Just past that cove, and if we still don’t see them then we’ll turn back.”
Normally—normally—I’d cut her down right here. No hesitation. I don’t tolerate employees arguing with me. Not on deck, not anywhere. It’s not how I run things.
But something’s broken in me today. Or maybe it’s just her, standing there with her cheeks flushed red from the cold, eyes bright with conviction, voice shaky but strong.
“Okay,” I hear myself say.
She looks just as shocked as I feel. Her mouth opens, then closes, like she doesn’t trust her ears.
I double down before I can take it back. “If they’re not in the cove, we head back before the wind picks up.”
She swallows, nodding fast. “Okay.” Then she’s back at her maps, flipping pages with cold-stiff fingers.
It’s only when I’m about to leave that I notice. Her nose, red from the chill. Ears, too. She hasn’t gone inside once. Two hours, maybe more, and she’s been out here like the cold doesn’t exist.
Idiot.
I tug my tuque off and hold it out. She blinks at it, confused. “Oh—I don’t need—”
“Take it.” My voice is sharper than I mean. “If you get sick, we’ve got no marine biologist. Then we’re screwed.”
She hesitates, then takes it carefully, like it might bite. Her fingers brush mine for half a second, light as a spark. I don’t let it linger.
Before she can put it on—and before I can see how it looks on her—I turn on my heel and head back to the wheelhouse.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I don’t protect liabilities.
I cut them loose. Always.
So why the hell does she make me do the opposite?
I head below for a minute, find Finn and Liam sprawled in the tiny sitting area, pretending to work while mostly arguing about god-knows-what.
“Thirty minutes,” I tell them, voice clipped. Both their heads snap up. “If there’s nothing by then, we’re pulling back. Wind’s shifting, so be ready—more rope, tighter knots when we haul in. Don’t screw it up.”
They nod, Finn rolling his shoulders like he’s gearing up for a fight with the ocean itself. Liam mutters something under his breath about me being the fun police, but I don’t bother with a response. I’ve got bigger things on my mind.
Back in the wheelhouse, Sloane’s got one boot propped on the console, steering easy as the boat noses toward the mouth of the cove. I lean against the doorway. “To the end of the cove, then we’re leaving.”
She sighs like I just ruined her day. “Finally. Thought you’d grown soft on me.”
“Don’t push it.”
A smirk tugs at her mouth. Rare. Almost foreign. “What, can’t take a joke?”
“From you? Never.”
That earns me an actual laugh, short and sharp. It’s strange, how alike we are—both too blunt, too sharp-edged, the kind of people who don’t get invited to the warm tables at Christmas. We scare people off, most of the time. With her, though, it’s just easy.
We talk about Jake for a while. She says something about how he can’t shut up about his “new project” back in the city, I fire back with a dig about her once almost crashing into a buoy, and for a few minutes the wheelhouse feels lighter than it has all day. Two assholes, keeping each other entertained.
Then it happens.
A scream.
Not just any scream—hers. High, sharp, jagged through the air.
Every muscle in me locks.
Liam barrels into the wheelhouse, breathless, eyes wide. “Reid—you have to come. Now.”