Chapter 56: Madeline
The water’s calm enough that the reflection of the sky ripples like liquid glass. It’s quiet—just the hum of the engine and the distant cry of gulls. I’m sitting near the bow, notebook on my lap, chin tucked into my scarf. We’ve been out for an hour now. Not a single porpoise, dolphin, whale, nothing. Just blue stretching endlessly in every direction.
Reid hasn’t come down once to “supervise” me. Not that I want him to. I think.
I try to focus on the waves instead, the sunlight glinting off the surface like tiny sparks. It’s peaceful in that hypnotic, lonely way. The kind of quiet that makes you think too much. About last night. About him.
A gust of cold air cuts through my jacket, and I shiver. I unzip my bag and pull out a tuque—his tuque, I realize, the second I see the small SWMRI embroidery on the side. My fingers freeze around it. I should’ve given it back sooner. I don’t even know why I kept it.
I put it back down like it burned me.
“Cold?”
The deep voice behind me almost makes me drop the damn thing. I turn around so fast my notebook slides off my knees.
“I—” My pulse trips. “I didn’t hear you coming.”
He’s standing a few feet away, one hand tucked in his pocket, the other holding onto the railing like he’s been there long enough to watch me freeze. The wind pushes his hair across his forehead, and when his eyes drop to the tuque, there’s a spark of something wicked behind the quiet. A raised brow, that slow, taunting look that feels like a dare.
I fumble, instantly defensive. “I was just—uh—keeping it safe. I meant to give it back.”
He doesn’t say anything, just keeps looking at me. Then he takes a step forward.
My breath catches. He’s close enough now that the heat from him cuts through the chill around us. Close enough that I can smell salt and cedar and something darker that shouldn’t make my knees weak, but it does.
He reaches out, takes the hat from my hands, his fingers brushing mine—rough, calloused, deliberate. I think he’s about to pocket it, but instead he leans forward and slips it back over my head.
I go completely still.
The world narrows to the drag of fabric over my hair, his hand adjusting it lightly, his knuckles grazing my temple. His touch is careful—gentle, even—but I can feel how much strength sits just beneath it.
He steps back finally, expression unreadable except for the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth.
“Better,” he says, voice low, almost gravelly.
I can’t think. I can’t even blink. My heart’s hammering so loud it drowns out the engine.
He looks at me for another second—long enough for the air to thicken between us again—then asks, “So, what do you want to do now?”
It takes me a second to process the question. My brain’s still stuck on the way he said better.
He tilts his head, amused now. “You gonna answer, or did I break your focus that easily?”
My mouth opens, words scrambling out. “When’s the last time you did a CTD test of the water?”
His brows lift slightly. Then that smirk. “Let’s go ask Jake.”
And just like that, he turns, walking toward the wheelhouse, leaving me there—heart pounding, head spinning, wearing his damn hat.
I pick up my notebook from where it slid, my fingers still trembling just enough to make me look ridiculous. I shove it against my chest and follow after him, his long strides forcing me to half-jog to keep up.
The wheelhouse is warm, sun cutting through the glass in strips of gold. Jake’s at the helm, one hand loose on the throttle, the other resting on the console. He looks relaxed—until he isn’t.
His gaze flicks up the moment we walk in, and for a second, everything stills. His eyes move from my face… to the hat on my head… to Reid behind me. Then back to me again.
I swallow hard.
Reid doesn’t notice—or maybe he does and just doesn’t care. “When’s the last time we ran a CTD?” he asks, voice low, all business.
Jake’s eyes stay on me. “It’s been at least two months.”
I shift my weight from one foot to the other, clutching my notebook like it’s a shield. “If nothing shows up today, it could be worth doing. Just so I have up-to-date readings.” My words come out too fast, like I’m tripping over them, and the look Jake gives me doesn’t help. It’s sharp and assessing, but there’s something else behind it—something I can’t name.
He finally nods, slow, thoughtful. “Good idea.” His tone softens just slightly, though his eyes don’t leave mine. “I’ll take us over the shallows, then cut the engines. Ten minutes.”
“Okay,” I say quietly.
Reid steps past me to check something on the panel, close enough that his arm brushes my shoulder. Jake shifts the throttle, the hum of the engines deepening. The air feels thick in here—like too many unsaid things pressed into too small a space.
And when Jake finally looks away from me, back to the horizon, I let out the breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
I head back down the narrow steps, the air growing colder the deeper I go. The storage compartment smells like salt and metal and something faintly oily—like every inch of this boat has lived a hundred stories before I ever stepped on it.
I crouch to grab the CTD case, my fingers brushing against the cool metal handles. The weight of it steadies me somehow. Science. Data. Numbers. Things that make sense. Things that don’t look at you like Jake did, or make your heart forget how to beat like Reid does.
I haul the case up onto the deck, the thud echoing against the boards. The water glints under the soft sun, calm but alive, and I can already hear Jake easing off the throttle up above. I unclip the latches and start organizing what I need—cords, sensors, the spool, the calibration sheet.
“Need a hand, Quinn?”
I glance up to see Liam and Finn walking over, both wearing matching grins that make them look like they’ve been up to something.
“Actually, yeah,” I admit, pushing a strand of hair out of my face. “If you could help me untangle this cable before I throw it overboard out of spite, that’d be great.”
Finn laughs, crouching beside me. “You say that like you wouldn’t dive in right after it.”
“I might,” I mutter, pretending to focus on the line, though I’m smiling.
Liam picks up the coil and starts winding it out carefully. “You know, we were starting to think the twins were gonna keep you hostage in that wheelhouse.”
“Guess they let me out on good behavior,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“Yeah?” Finn teases.
“Sure,” Liam says, clearly amused but kind enough to drop it. “Alright, ready when Jake cuts the engines.”
The sound above us dulls, the hum of the propellers fading until the only noise left is the soft slap of waves against the hull.
Finn looks over the edge of the boat and grins. “Perfect spot, calm water. Let’s get your fancy space toaster in there, Doc.”
I laugh—really laugh—and start lowering the CTD setup into position, the guys steadying the line beside me. For a brief moment, it feels easy again. Just work. Just sea and science and the rhythm of the water. No tension, no heat, no confusing stares from men I can’t stop thinking about.
Just this.