Page 150 of Love to Loathe Him

She’s left me. She fucking left me. Just up and left after I trusted her, let her in. And now, she’s gone.

I yank on the halyard with enough force to hear Skipper Magee’s voice in my head, chewing me out. The mainsail unfurls with a satisfying snap. The familiar motions ground me, give me something to focus on other than the clusterfuck in my head.

VHF radio? Check. Jib sheets? Secured. Halyards? Clear. Everything’s shipshape, as the old man would say.

I grab the skipper’s ratty hat, the one with the faded albatross emblem that’s seen better days. Jamming it on my head, I let out a humorless chuckle. Maybe some of the hat’s supposed luck will rub off on me, like he always claimed it would. Not that I believe in that superstitious bullshit.

The engine roars to life under my hand, the vibrations surging up my arm and straight into my chest. As I steer out of the marina, I can feel the chop in the water—waves slapping against the hull, more aggressive than usual. The wind’s picking up too, whipping my hair into my eyes.

But I don’t give a damn. Let the sea rage.

Once I’m clear of the harbor, I kill the engine and let the wind take over. The sails fill, and the boat heels over, the raw power of the elements coursing through me. This is what I need. This wildness, this unpredictability.

Out of nowhere, an image of Gemma on this boat just a few weeks ago hits me. Laughing as her beautiful red hair flew about. Now that hair is probably swaying in the Costa Rican breeze, mocking me from across the ocean.

The memory sends a fresh wave of pain through me. I grit my teeth, focusing instead on the task at hand.

I need to adjust the sails before we’re blown halfway to the Channel Islands. As I move across the pitching deck, a vicious wave crashes over the bow, the icy water hitting me like a full-body slap. For a split second, I think about turning back. The storm’s building faster than I anticipated, and this is getting dangerous.

I finish reefing the sail and make my way back to the helm. The wind’s a beast now, the waves crashing like they’re trying to take me down. It’s exhilarating and terrifying all at once.

Just like falling in love with Gemma was.

That thought blindsides me, and I nearly lose my grip on the wheel. Love? Is that what this is? Yeah, it’s love, all right. That’s why it hurts like hell—why it feels like she carved out my still-beating heart and took it with her to fucking Costa fucking Rica.

The boat lurches violently, and this time, I lose my footing. I slam hard into the side of the cockpit, pain exploding in my shoulder as something pops with a sickening crack. The damn hat—the one I swore would bring me luck—flies off my head. I’ve already fished it out of the sea once. As it rolls around the cockpit, I lean over to grab it and slip.

“You asshole,” I groan, the words torn away by the wind as soon as they leave my lips.

Then everything goes black.

CHAPTER 45

Liam

“Liam?” a soft voicemurmurs, pulling me from the murky depths of unconsciousness.

“Uh,” I grunt, the sound scraping past my dry lips. I feel the familiar rocking of waves beneath me, but for once, it’s disorienting rather than calming. Did I polish off an entire bottle of that Isle of Skye whisky last night? What the hell . . .

I force my eyes open, squinting against the assault of harsh fluorescent lights. A redheaded woman comes into focus, hovering over me. For a second, my heart skips a beat, thinking it’s Gemma. Then reality crashes in like a cold fucking wave.

Shit. I’m in a hospital bed.

I try to turn my head, and a sharp pain shoots through my shoulder. Skipper Magee and Edward are at the foot of the bed, arms crossed and their faces set in identical expressions of grim disapproval.

“Why the hell am I here?” I rasp out, my voice gravelly from disuse.

I try to sit up, only to let out a hissed curse as agony explodes in my shoulder, radiating down my arm and across my chest like a motherfucker.

“Easy there, tough guy,” the redheaded nurse soothes, placing a gentle hand on my uninjured shoulder. “You’ve dislocated your shoulder. Do you remember what happened?”

“What the hell were you thinking, son?” Skipper Magee says gruffly.

I grind my teeth, trying to piece together the fragmented, hazy memories. “I went out on the boat. How did I even get here?”

“You were knocked unconscious somehow,” Edward says, his tone equal parts concern and reproach. “Liam, why the bloody hell did you ignore all the weather warnings and head out into that storm?”

“Who found me?” I ask, brushing off the question. I don’t have an answer that’ll satisfy them—or myself.