Page 69 of Love to Loathe Him

“Gemma, you’re falling too far behind the trim,” he shouts, grabbing the ropes from my trembling hands and adjusting them with a few harsh, efficient pulls. “We have to keep the sails optimized for these winds.”

“I don’t even know what the fuck that means!” I screech as the boat starts tilting. “Someone, please get me off this floating fucking deathtrap!”

“Calm yourself,” he growls. “It’s fine. Nothing’s going to happen to you. I’m here.”

“Like that’s reassuring after you threatened to toss me overboard!”

His expression flickers with a smirk. “I’ll wait until after we win to feed you to the sharks.”

Before I can process what’s happening, Liam hauls my back against the hard wall of his chest and wraps his beefy arms around me.

I let out an undignified shriek, my body going rigid with a heady mix of fear and something else entirely. “What the hell are you—”

I promptly shut up when I realize he’s trying to show me what to do.

“Feel how I’m countering the wind?” His voice tickles my ear, sending sparks down my spine. Feel it? I can feeleverything. “Use your whole body, not just your arms. And calm down. Relax your breathing. Easy now. It’s okay, you’ve got this.”

The heat of his touch sears through my big yellow trousers, branding me with his fingerprints. I’ll probably have scorch marks in the shape of his hand for weeks.

His other hand grips the ropes, biceps flexing with the strain. I’m acutely aware of every hard plane of his body pressed against mine, the friction between us too much, too hot, tooeverything.

He guides my hands to the ropes, his fingers engulfing mine.

“There, that’s it,” Liam murmurs in a tone that could almost be construed as approval.

His breaths are pulsing hotly against the back of my neck and combined with the salty ocean breeze whipping my hair around, it’s making it really hard to focus.

“Now work those ropes, just like I showed you,” he instructs, all business. As if he doesn’t realize his proximity is melting my brain. As if my ass isn’t nestled in his groin, with him as my big spoon.

I try to keep up with what he’s saying and what his hands are trying to show me. But it’s impossible. All I can think about is how badly I want to lean back, to test if that bulge I feel is what I think it is.

My hands shake as I grip the ropes, desperate to prove I’m not useless.

“You okay to handle this by yourself now?” he says over the chaos of wind and waves.

No, I want to scream. I’m not okay. You have your hands all over me and it’s driving me fucking insane. I need to hump something before I explode. If I live past this race, that is.

“Uh-huh,” I squeak out, then clear my throat, trying to sound like a badass sailor. “I mean, yeah. I got this.”

“Good,” Liam bellows, storming back to his position like a man on a mission. The abrupt loss of contact leaves me reeling.

“Prepare to jibe!” Magee’s voice pierces the winds.

Before I can process this new bit of nautical nonsense, there’s a loud whoosh above my head. The boom—the massive metal pole at the base of the mainsail—swings violently across the boat. I duck, narrowly avoiding an impromptu decapitation.

“Jesus Christ!” I yelp, my heart pounding. I think I let out a bit of pee.

Liam and Skipper Magee continue to shout sailing jargon back and forth like they’re speaking in tongues for the next twenty minutes while I focus on the more important task of not dying.

The chalky cliffs of the Isle of Wight are coming closer. Solid, beautiful, non-moving land. Pebbled between the colorful houses of the port town, there’s a pub beckoning. And I need a drink.

“We’re winning!” Max yells at me from his position on the other side, his face lighting up.

We’re winning? How the hell did that happen? Did all the other boats sink?

I don’t even know where the finish line is. I don’t know anything anymore. I’m just trying not to get swept overboard or yelled at.

I risk a glance over at the other boats, and holy shit, we’re neck and neck with Alastair’s crew, leading the rest of the pack. The wind is finally starting to die down a blessed notch, but the competition still feels ferocious.