Page 151 of Love to Loathe Him

“Coastguard received a distress signal,” the skipper says.

This was beyond careless of me. I’ve caused the Coastguard a world of trouble, wasted their valuable time and resources on my reckless ass. I’ll have to double the sizeable donation I usually make to their service.

“I’m an idiot,” I mutter, scrubbing a hand over my face and wincing as my shoulder flares with pain.

“Aye, you are,” Skipper Magee agrees, no sugarcoating. “You need some goddamn sense knocked into that thick skull of yours, boy. I thought I taught you better than to try and take on Mother Nature in a pissin’ contest.”

“Sorry, Skipper,” I mumble.

Edward chuckles, and I manage to muster up a faint glare in his direction. I know why he’s laughing—the skipper’s the only one who can chew me out and make me feel like a schoolboy.

“Liam, as worried as I am, I can’t say I’m entirely shocked,” Edward says. “You’ve been in self-destruct mode for weeks now.”

I sigh. “I know, I know. I just . . . I needed to get out on the water. Clear my head.”

“And instead you nearly cracked it wide open on the deck of your own bloody boat,” Edward snaps, frustration dripping from every word. “Absolutely brilliant plan, that.”

“Yeah, well, hindsight’s a bitch, ain’t she?” I wince again as I shift, trying to find a position that doesn’t make me want to groan. “Trust me, I’m not exactly thrilled with my choices either.”

“Damn right you shouldn’t be,” Edward mutters, but there’s no real heat behind it. “You scared the shit out of us.”

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “I wasn’t thinking straight. Jesus, this hurts like a motherfucker.”

“Well, it would do,” Edward says, peering down at me with a disapproving tsk. “You’ve sustained a comminuted fracture of the proximal humerus, with potential damage to the rotator cuff. There’s also evidence of a grade three concussion, based on your loss of consciousness.”

“In English?” I groan, my head throbbing.

He shakes his head, letting out another long-suffering sigh. “You’ve well and truly fucked up your shoulder, and your brain got rattled around in that thick skull of yours. You’re lucky you didn’t bloody well drown or end up with permanent brain damage, you stubborn prick.”

I manage a weak chuckle, immediately regretting it as pain spears through me. “Always knew you cared, mate.” I deserve this bollocking. Hell, I’d be tearing someone a new one if they’d pulled the same stunt.

“I’ll come back in ten minutes.” The nurse smiles at me knowingly, patting Skipper on the shoulder as she leaves. Like she’s trying to spare me the embarrassment of being reamed out like a naughty schoolboy in front of an audience.

“Patrick’s on his way,” Edward says after a moment, his tone softening. “His flight gets in from Glasgow in about thirty minutes.”

“What? He doesn’t need to come all this way for this,” I protest, even as a part of me warms at the thought of seeing my brother. I take a breath, forcing myself to calm down. “I’ve really bollocksed this up, haven’t I?”

“That’s putting it mildly,” Skipper Magee grunts. “There’s a fire in you, lad, an anger that’s gonna chew you up and spit you out if you don’t get a handle on it. Life’s hard enough without anticipating every punch and throwing your own first. You keep living like that, you’re gonna end up hurting yourself worse than anyone else. I know the deal was important, but to lose your head like this, nearly get yourself killed over it . . .” He shakes his head, a deep line of disappointment carving into his weathered face. “There comes a time when a man needs to put his anger aside before it swallows him whole.”

Edward looks at me pointedly, his eyebrows raised in a silent question.

“It wasn’t that,” I mutter. “It was . . . something else.”

What was it?” Skipper’s eyes narrow. “Not your fancy deal?”

I sigh.

“Whatever’s chewing you up, whatever it is that’s got you so riled, you need to face it head-on. Running won’t do you any good. Answers come in the calm, not the storm.”

I chuckle humorlessly at the skipper’s bad pun.

“This isn’t about a woman, is it?” Skipper asks, his eyes narrowing shrewdly.

“Yes,” Edward answers for me, the traitor.

Skipper shakes his head. “You need to sort that shit out. Don’t think I wasn’t like you when I was younger.” He clears his throat awkwardly, shifting in his seat like he’s steeling himself forsomething. “Liam, lad. I’m going to tell you a story. And I want you to listen well, because it might just save you a world of regret.”

I bite back a groan. Skipper’s stories are notoriously long-winded, meandering tales that take hours to reach their point. I’ll probably be asleep before he even gets to the moral. I really don’t need this right now, not with the pain in my shoulder.