Page 30 of Resistance Training

I don’t look over at Vivian when I’m done stowing the lines. I have to pass her to go up to the flybridge, but I am very careful not to bump shoulders with her.

“Make yourself comfortable, Vivian,” Larry says. “Set your things down in the main salon. You can join Mitch up on the bridge. If you want. Plenty of seating and sleeping options.”

“There’s a deck of cards and some old board games in there,” Cindy adds. “Plenty of clean towels, and well, anything you might need, I’m sure you’ll find it. Stay outta trouble!”

“You’re literally creating trouble for us,” I mumble as I test the horn.

It works.

“Hold on!” I call out to Vivian. I have no idea where she is. “Backing out now!”

“All good!” she says from the main cockpit just below and behind me.

Way too close for comfort.

“Right. Here we go.”

I reverse out of the slip.

“Looking good, Captain!” Larry shouts from the dock.

I motor north down the Willamette River, toward the Columbia River.

It’ll be about ten miles. Visibility is excellent from this elevated helm seat and because of the weather.

I will concentrate on piloting this vessel and I will enjoy the views along the river.

Most of the clear vinyl panels around the bridge are up and attached to the canvas canopy overhead, so I can enjoy the fresh air.

There is more than enough space for two people on this yacht.

She can have every room below deck. This is the captain’s domain.

“O Captain, my captain…” she says in a singsong voice that is meant to scrape at the door to my soul as she takes the three steps up to my domain.

Shit.

“Mind if I join you?”

“I need to concentrate until we get to the channel.”

“I get it,” she says, sitting behind me on the wraparound seat. “I won’t distract you. I brought my John Green book.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Did you? Bring the book?”

“I did.”

“Good! We can chat about it later. When you’re available to concentrate on something other than being the captain of this ship. How’s the kitten?”

“Good, actually.”

“Yeah? Have you decided to keep her?”

“Yes, I have.”

“I knew you would.”

“She sleeps a lot. That’s normal, right?”

“Definitely. For kittens and senior cats. Hairy sleeps a lot now—it’s nice. What are you going to call her?”

“Don’t know yet.” That’s a lie. I’m going to call her Bella.

“You should call her Niall, since he was your favorite member of One Direction.”

“He wasn’t my favorite. I’m a guy. I don’t have a favorite member of One Direction. I believe he has the most interesting personality of all the former members of One Direction.”

She giggles. “Oh my God, you should call her Bella. Too soon?”

Fucking hell, get out of my head. “Like I said, I need to concentrate.”

“Right. I’ll go down to the cockpit until we reach the channel, then. If that pleases you, my captain.”

“As you wish, First Mate.” Fucking nautical terms.

“I wish I was your first.” The sincerity in her voice is a jab to the heart.

To the back.

To the gut.

Who was her first? I don’t want to know. I can’t think about it.

“Well…as you were, Seaman.” And we’re back with our regularly scheduled sassy programming. “Keep up the good work.” No reply from me. “Oh, do you want me to bring you anything from the galley? Water? Coffee? Protein bar?”

“Nope. I’m good—thank you.”

“Okay. Well. I’ll be in the cockpit if you need anything.”

I need you to stop saying cock .

I hear her go down those three steps, settle into a chair, and I swear to God I can hear the breeze gently caressing her skin.

I want to be the breeze. I want to be the late-winter sun planting a delicate kiss on her cheeks, with promises of spring and budding passion that is about to bloom.

I want to be the surprise March snowstorm that encompasses and silences her with all of its weight and beauty, makes her feel warm and safe despite the cold and shocks her with its power.

More specifically, I want to be the guy who wants those things without hesitation.

But I’m not.

And I can’t concentrate on her.

I concentrate on piloting this vessel. She’s a lot easier to handle. Completely under my control. She’s a good girl.

I should be able to cruise comfortably at fifteen knots through the Portland area for fifteen to twenty minutes, then pick up to twenty knots on the Columbia River.

Should reach the channel in forty-five minutes to an hour.

I love being out on the water this time of year, as long as it isn’t stormy, because it isn’t overcrowded with wakeboarding assholes.

And thanks to the good weather, the cock-taunting asshole onboard isn’t overcrowding me on this boat.

This might not be so bad after all.

Fuck.

Fucking unpredictable March weather patterns.

This could get bad.

Really bad.

An hour in, we’ve reached the Multnomah Channel. I’ve slowed to displacement speed so as not to disturb the waterfowl and the great blue herons. I watched eagles circling overhead and calmly enjoyed the pastoral scenery to either side of me, in total denial of the dark clouds rolling in.

Now it’s raining.

There’s a canvas Bimini top over the flybridge, so it offers protection from light rain.

It’s not a hardtop, but it’s not pouring rain.

Yet. I put her on autopilot since the waterway looks clear up ahead and lower the window panels nearby to keep the rain out.

The wind is picking up a bit, but this narrow channel is buffered by the trees and vegetation of farmland on either side, so the water won’t get too choppy. It’s fine.

I am about to yell for Vivian to help me lower the panels that are farther away from the controls, but she’s already bounding up the steps.

“Hi. Let me help.”

I disengage the autopilot and take manual control again. “Can you put down the window panels and then cover up the upholstery with those seat covers?”

“You got it.”

She does got it. She was always really adept at sailing when we went out on the water on Mercer Island.

I knew I could count on her. I glance over at her when her arm brushes my shoulder as she reaches down to get the upholstery cover that’s folded up on the floor by the companion seat, and fucking hell, she’s just wearing her tight little T-shirt and it’s white and it’s a little bit damp and I can see her bra and she’s the fucking devil.

“Never mind. I’ll do it.”

“What?!”

“Just go below deck—I’ll take care of everything up here.”

She totally disobeys me and continues to cover the seats. “Are you nuts? Find somewhere to drop anchor. It’s going to start pouring rain soon.”

“I’m sorry—are you telling the captain what to do right now?”

“I mean, yes. If your plans don’t include piloting us to that cove up ahead and dropping anchor until the weather changes, then I am telling you what to do.”

“You know what—why don’t you go down to the galley and make us some hot chocolate.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. They have an electric kettle. Do it now, please.”

“Do you want me to bring up your jacket or a sweater?”

“I didn’t bring one.”

“Oh right, because of your overheated muscles.”

“They aren’t overheated—will you get down there and stay down there please?”

“That’s what she said!”

I shake my head. “Vivian.”

“Fine. I’m going. But you’d better drop anchor.”

I don’t respond to that because I am the captain and I decide.

When I hear her open and close the door to the main salon, I decide to pilot around the bend and drop anchor. This motoryacht has an electric anchor windlass, so once I’ve positioned her over the desired spot, I can deploy the anchor from the helm, but I go out to the bow to get a better visual.

While I’m there, Vivian opens the door and steps outside. “Everything okay?” she asks.

She sounds like she’s wearing a tight, wet T-shirt, so I don’t look back at her. “Yes. Go back inside.”

“The water’s boiled.”

“Then enjoy a mug of hot chocolate by yourself. I’m going to stay up on the flybridge.”

She huffs. “I don’t know who needs to hear this, but you’re being a stubborn assclown.”

Man, oh man, she must have really enjoyed having her ass slapped last night because she is asking for it.

“Will you just come inside?” she continues. “There’s so much room! I’ll read in one of the cabins. You can have the rest of it to yourself!”

“I’ll see you inside when I’m ready, Vivian.”

She makes a guttural frustrated sound that is somehow sexy, and I don’t turn around until I hear her close that door again because I am positive she didn’t put her sweater back on over that damp white T-shirt.

I go back up to the flybridge, put the boat in Reverse to set the anchor, ensure that the anchor is holding, and then I take a seat in the captain’s chair, taking a big, deep breath.

It’s really coming down now.

The herons have taken shelter.

The ducks are still on the water, but they’ve paddled closer to shore.

The hawks and eagles have disappeared.

All the wildlife is taking shelter.

There’s a light spray of water coming through the gaps of the vinyl panels and the metal frames, and fuck it—I’m going below deck.

Why shouldn’t I take shelter too?

She’s right. There’s tons of room down there, and it’s gorgeous.

Why should she be the only one who gets to enjoy the climate-controlled environment and all that high-gloss cherry trim and the cozy beige ultraleather sofas?

Why shouldn’t I relax to the soothing, rhythmic sound of rain on the cabin roof?

As I make my way down the steps to the cockpit and open the cabin door, I can’t think of one good reason why I shouldn’t get comfortable inside with my book and a mug of hot chocolate.

I’m a grown man who’s one hundred percent capable of not fucking a woman if I don’t want to fuck a woman.

Even when that woman is Vivian Sparks.

Even when I take that last step down to the salon and look up to find Vivian standing in the galley, holding her T-shirt and jeans, wearing nothing but a bra and panties.

But fuck.