Chapter 43: Reid
I’m already moving before my brain catches up, boots pounding the deck. Her scream keeps replaying in my head, jagged and sharp, worse than anything the wind could throw at us. Overboard. Blood. Some mangled carcass dragged in by the tide. Christ, maybe I’ll have to drag her back myself, hold her together until—
I round the corner—and stop dead.
She’s not bleeding. She’s not crying. She’s jumping.
Jumping like a kid who just won the lottery, her whole face cracked wide open in a smile so bright the damn moon and stars would crawl down from the sky just to steal it.
It hits me like a wall. Like running full-speed into something invisible and immovable.
My chest seizes. My pulse goes sideways. And for one dangerous second, I forget how to move.
“Reid! Look!!”
I shouldn’t like the way she says my name. But it rolls off her lips like it belongs there, like she’s been practicing it in secret. I snap out of it before she catches me staring and drag my eyes to where she’s pointing.
And for once in my life, even I can’t find words.
The cove is alive.
Porpoises—dozens, no, hundreds—bursting through the water, small dark backs glinting as they arc in and out like a hundred beating hearts. I’ve been out here more years than I can count, thought I’d seen every miracle the sea could cough up. But this? Never. Not even stories.
I lift a hand, signal to Sloane in the wheelhouse. Cut the engines. The hum dies away, leaving nothing but the slap of waves and the frenzy of movement all around us.
“Reid!”
Fuck.
There it is again—the blow that floors me harder than the sight of the porpoises. My name, soft but urgent, wrapped in a smile that’s too wide, too real. Her eyes shine like glass lit from within. My tuque is slouched low over her hair, dark against copper strands that catch the gray light. Salt crystals pepper her cheeks, and she’s still flushed from hours in the cold, but she looks—
Christ. She looks like she belongs here, like the sea just decided to give her something it never gave anyone else.
She’s looking up at me like she doesn’t remember she’s supposed to hate me. Like I’m not the man who’s been pushing her away. And that gaze? That unguarded joy? It guts me in a way I don’t want to name.
I snatch the binoculars from her hand before I do something stupid. She points immediately, her sleeve brushing mine, and I lift the glass to my eyes. Smaller shapes break the surface, clumsy, unsteady.
“What am I looking at?” My voice comes out harsher than I mean, gravel dragged across steel.
“Babies,” she says, half a gasp, half a prayer. “They’re all babies. At least twenty—maybe more!”
Even I can’t hide my surprise. I drop the binoculars, stare out at the frenzy with new eyes.
Work. That’s something I can cling to. “Alright,” I say, tone clipped. “We don’t have much time before the wind shifts. What do you need?”
Her whole face lights again. “Pictures. A headcount—at least an estimate. And video. If I can capture enough footage, I can analyze later, maybe track their behavior patterns in the cove.”
She’s rambling, voice running faster than her breath, and I can't keep listening. How many times a day does she ramble like that? Her brain moves faster than her body, I can see the thoughts running through her eyes.
“Fine,” I mutter, moving in, setting gear down beside her.
She bends over her notes, hair slipping out from under my tuque, lips moving as she mutters numbers to herself. I fix my gaze on the water, on the work, anywhere but her.
Because right now, standing next to her while she shines like this, I don’t trust myself at all.
Less than twenty-five minutes and I feel it in my bones—the shift. The wind isn’t playing anymore. It’s shoving us sideways, herding us toward the cove like it wants a wreck to watch.
She hasn’t noticed. Of course she hasn’t.
Madeline’s still crouched on the deck, scribbling like she can hold the whole ocean steady with a pen. Hair plastered to her cheek, tuque half off, lips pinched in that stubborn little pout.
“Pack it up,” I say, sharp.
Her head snaps up. “But—”
The gust answers for me. The boat lurches and she topples straight onto her ass, papers skidding.
I don’t move, but the sound that tears out of her makes something tighten in my chest.
She huffs, cheeks red, mutters a breathless, “Fine,” and scrambles to gather everything.
I drop into a crouch beside her before I can think better of it, my hand flattening a stack of notes just before they’re stolen by the wind. She freezes for half a second—green eyes flicking up to mine—before snatching the pages back.
“As soon as you’re done, inside,” I tell her, voice low but leaving no room.
She blinks. “Inside?”
I nod toward the white spray already dusting the bow. “Two more minutes out here and you’ll be drenched. Don’t argue.”
Her throat works, like she wants to say something—fight me, maybe—but she only nods once and zips the bag shut.
I stand, the wind tugging at my jacket.
Liability. That’s what she is. I have to remind myself of that.
But I can’t shake the image of her going over in one wrong gust—and the fact that I’d be the first in after her.
The wind’s not dangerous yet, but it’s enough to make the ride rougher than I like with her on board. I tell Sloane I’ll take the wheel, to go grab something to eat and get back up after. She doesn’t argue—just shrugs and disappears down the steps.
I angle the boat so the swell hits us at the best angle, trimming the worst of the spray. It’s not big weather for me and Sloane—we’ve worked through worse plenty of times—but still, it’s better to head back. The wind’s at our backs now, cutting the return time in half.
Fifteen minutes later Sloane climbs back up, wiping her hands on her jeans, smirk in place. She doesn’t even need to say anything—I can tell she’s about to start critiquing my maneuvers.
Before she can open her mouth, Liam comes up the steps, grabs a towel off the hook, and shoots her a look that makes me pause. Not his usual laid-back grin. Not even his usual quiet. A sharp cut-eye.
Liam shakes his head, voice tight. “You can be a real asshole sometimes, Sloane.”
She only smiles—slow, infuriating. Doesn’t deny it.
Liam disappears below deck, muttering insults as he goes.
I raise a brow, keeping one hand steady on the wheel. “What the hell was that about?”
She shrugs like it’s nothing. “Everyone who sets foot on this boat should know the sea well enough to handle it. Where to stand. How to keep dry.”
Her tone’s casual, but I catch the edge in it.
I glance down the stairwell Liam vanished through. He’d looked fine—angry but calm, like always—but he wasn’t wet. Not even close.
My jaw tightens. “What did you do?”
Another shrug. Infuriating. “Nothing worth losing sleep over.”
I don’t press, not now. The wind’s still pushing us and I need to keep the bow steady, eyes on the horizon.
But the thought sticks like a burr. Sloane doesn’t waste energy unless she has a reason.
And I don’t like not knowing what the hell that reason is.