Page 13 of Windlass (Seal Cove #3)

Most unfortunately for Angie’s resolve, the forecast hadn’t lied.

The weekend rolled in with a heatwave, which did not bode well for the summer, but did bode well for boating plans.

Morgan’s boat fit the six of them comfortably, though the word “cozy” also applied.

Angie had initially been disappointed that Stormy hadn’t joined them, as she was deathly afraid of boats, but as Morgan ushered them onto the deck she supposed another body would have made things tight.

She took no time stripping down to her suit.

Shedding her sticky clothes brought the first relief she’d felt in .

. . well, she supposed it hadn’t been hot for all that long, but heat had a way of making time tacky, unspooling it so that each hot, slow moment felt like a year.

A breeze stirred the fine hairs on her body, and she leaned back against the bow letting the white hull burn her back.

It hurt and she savored the sensation, feeling the pain subside into a dull, tingling frustration that both satisfied and left her vaguely empty.

“Sunscreen?” Emilia asked the group. “Angie, you definitely need it.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re wearing floss.”

This wasn’t entirely fair; her suit covered nearly half of her ass, and her breasts were modestly tucked into the bikini top, even if the coverage was more New York City real estate than Maine.

Women’s swimsuits didn’t leave a whole lot to the imagination.

Besides, Emilia’s top wasn’t much better; Morgan was going to crash the boat if she didn’t stop staring.

Ivy still wore a white sun cover, but the green—of course it was green—suit beneath, while technically a one-piece, could have come from the other half of the cloth that had made Angie’s. Suits were not supposed to cover you.

Unless, of course, you were Stevie. Angie shaded her eyes to better see Stevie, who sat on the other side of the boat watching the moorings pass as Morgan piloted through the small harbor.

Being Stevie, she sported flip-flops, board shorts, and a tank top over what might have been a swimsuit, but no one would ever know, because Stevie would never take it off.

“Fine.” She sat up. Stevie did not stare at her the way Morgan gazed at Emilia.

Instead, she kept watching the boats. Which was good.

Of course it was good. She hadn’t worn her skimpiest bathing suit for Stevie’s viewing pleasure.

That would be ridiculous, considering she’d decided not to tease her.

Shame spilled over her with the sunlight. Had she worn this suit to tease Stevie? She wished she’d worn a cover-up instead of shorts. The idea of putting her jean shorts back on, damp with sweat and stiff compared to the freedom of movement given by her suit, was miserable, but she considered it.

You’re such a fucking slut , she told herself, feeling the heat from the sun gather in her cheeks.

“Do you need help putting it on?” said Emilia.

Angie felt more than saw Stevie tense, even though she remained the picture of calm, sunglasses covering her eyes. Yes , she longed to say. Yes I do, and I want Stevie to do it. Morgan was here, however, and Angie knew what she would have to say about that later.

“Lil?” she asked instead.

“Sure. Just a moment.” Lilian was busy applying sunscreen on herself and fussing over Ivy, who did look slightly peaked, now that Angie studied her. MS flare? Ivy smiled, catching Angie in the act of staring.

“You okay?” Angie mouthed.

Ivy nodded and shooed Lilian away.

Lilian turned to Angie. “You can do your front; I’ll get your back and shoulders. Turn.”

She missed Lilian bossing her around. Stevie did glance up, perhaps thinking the same thing, and grinned. Angie felt the smile like cool water. She relaxed into it, relief slackening her muscles.

Lilian squeezed a healthy dollop of sunscreen into Angie’s hands, and then squirted some onto her shoulders. The relief vanished as she jumped.

“Ah! That’s cold!”

“It will warm up. Your skin’s already flushed.”

“It was the boat deck.”

“Make sure you get beneath the straps.”

“Yes, Mom.”

Lilian flicked her and rubbed the lotion across her shoulders and down her arms, forcing Angie to catch the straps of her suit before she was stripped. Lilian worked efficiently, and squeezed Angie’s shoulders when she was done.

Angie focused on her front. She distributed the dollop in little daubs across her body before rubbing them in slowly, starting with her stomach.

Her skin absorbed the lotion thirstily. She was careful to keep her eyes cast down and focused on her work, leaving room for Stevie to watch unobserved, if she so chose.

But Stevie remained fixated on the horizon even when Angie took care to shield her breasts from the sun’s rays in slow, even strokes.

“Lotion?” she asked. Stevie turned, eyes hidden behind her aviator-style glasses.

“I put some on at the house.”

“Oh.” She held the tube in her hands, unsure of what to do with it.

Lilian eventually took it back. She reclined on the bow and stared at the wisps of clouds above, the churning in her chest an ugly, roiling thing.

She did not want to examine it and yet it filled her up to her throat, forcing her to taste its bitter fumes.

Nothing had happened. Nothing had happened, and yet she felt as if someone had let the wind out from the sails of the tall ships they’d observed from the beach several days before.

The swells rolled gently beneath them, and Angie rested a hand outside the boat’s railing to cool off. The others chatted around her, mostly about the clinic, which excluded her anyway. Her earlier feeling that Stormy’s absence had a silver lining faded.

“Porpoise,” Morgan called out over the hum of the engine. Angie didn’t look. She’d seen porpoises before.

“Ange!”

Stevie’s voice got her attention. She was pointing, and Angie sat up, grabbing the railing for balance.

A pod of porpoises leapt alongside them, keeping pace with the boat.

There had to be at least seven, the joy in their movements easing the ache in her chest. Stevie stood beside her, now, leaning over the edge of the boat a little too far for Angie’s comfort.

Angie grabbed her wrist for support instead of the rail, communicating her excitement with a squeeze, and also ensuring she would not topple overboard.

Stevie smiled, and from this angle Angie could see her eyes, soft as they watched the animals in the water. The void inside her calmed.

Unable to help herself, she leaned her head against Stevie’s shoulder, heedless of the periodic jolts as the boat hit uneven swells. Sunlight flashed off the sleek hides and lit the waves like blown glass. The urge to reach out to them was overwhelming. What did it feel like to move like that?

“We should go swimming soon,” she murmured, half to Stevie, half to herself. The wind carried the words away.

They all let out a collective sigh when the porpoises dove and resurfaced farther off, done with their game.

“That was incredible.” She tugged on Stevie’s wrist to gain her attention. Stevie’s skin was hot from the sunlight where it wasn’t damp with spray.

“Right?” Stevie’s glasses obscured her eyes once more.

All Angie could see of her expression was her mouth, which curved in a smile she suddenly found inscrutable.

Where were Stevie’s eyes? On her, or still on the water?

She knew how she looked, positioned on the bow, barely clothed, the motion of the boat traveling through her body, breasts rising with each passing wave.

Christ, she wanted Stevie to touch her. Was it the glasses?

The edge to her smile that might have been mocking on someone else, or knowing, or simply Stevie’s impish grin seen in another light?

Why had Angie taken off her own sunglasses, her shield, when she knew—could feel—her eyelids lowering like sails as heat pooled between her thighs?

Stevie extracted herself without a word.

Fuck .

Angie faced forward before anyone else could see her expression, and before Stevie could see the red suffusing her cheeks.

“Sunscreen, Ward,” she heard Lilian say without comprehending the words.

Laughter and more conversation flowed behind her with the boat’s wake.

She focused on trying to calm her capillaries.

She hadn’t just given Stevie that look. She couldn’t have.

Doing so would have been a terrible, terrible idea.

She’d meant to bare her skin today—not her desire.

“You had the right idea,” said Stevie nonchalantly, setting a boat cushion on the bow opposite her.

Angie did not want to look at her. How much had Stevie seen in her expression? Just how wantonly had she stared up at her best friend, her body threatening to ruin the delicate balance they were already struggling to keep between them?

Gold flickered. She looked, drawn by the color, and forgot about the boat and their friends and the vanishing porpoises.

Stevie rarely showed skin. Her modesty had frustrated Angie for ages, each glimpse she’d stolen carefully squirreled away in the hopes she might one day gather enough for a full image, just so that she knew, exactly, what she denied herself.

She was not expecting to see Stevie sitting upright, hair down and whipping in the wind, board shorts and tank top cruelly absent.

“It’s much cooler,” Stevie continued, raising her face to the breeze, keeping her glasses between them.

Her tousled hair was too much. Angie couldn’t. She just couldn’t be expected to deal with this, not without burying her hands in that rippling gold.

“Uh huh.”