Stupid, really. The way Hannah sprang off the counter at the mention of the devilish charmer’s name and started shoving pieces of her hair back under the brim of her hat. “It’s not a bad idea,” she said, automatically defending Fox, even though they hadn’t seen each other in six months.
There had only been the daily texts.
That she definitely wouldn’t be mentioning to Piper.
“We’re friendly.” Lower your voice. “We’re friends.”
“I know that, Hanns,” Piper said indulgently.
“And you know”—she dropped her volume even more—“I still have that thing for a certain someone.” Why Hannah suddenly felt the need to prove to Piper—and possibly herself—that she was, indeed, only friends with a man who went through women like nickels in a slot machine, she had no idea. But there it was. “Staying with Fox isn’t a terrible idea. Like you said, he’ll only be there half the time. I’ll be able to keep food in the fridge, which I won’t in a hotel room. It will slice a little off the production’s expenditures and earn me points with Sergei.”
“Speaking of Sergei, are you finally going to ask him?”
Hannah took a deep breath, glancing toward the door of the bathroom. “Yeah, I think this might be my moment, since I just proved my worth in there. There is already a music coordinator on the payroll, but I’m going to ask to assist. It’s a step in the right direction, at least, right?”
“Damn right,” Piper said, clapping at the rate of a hummingbird’s wings in the background. “You got this, bish.”
Maybe.
Maybe not.
Hannah cleared her throat. “Will you talk to Fox for me about using the guest room? He might feel pressured if I ask him directly. It’s just to put the idea out there, in case it’s March for sure and the guest room will be taken.”
Piper hesitated briefly. “Okay, Hanns. Love you.”
“Love you, too. Hugs to the mean one.”
Hannah hung up the phone on a giggle from Piper and tapped the device against her mouth. Why was her pulse racing? Surely not because there was a possibility she could occupy a room in Fox’s apartment. There might have been an inescapable attraction toward the relief skipper the first time they met, but after his phone pinged for the thousandth time with blatant booty calls, it became woefully obvious that his incredible looks were used to his advantage with the opposite sex.
Fox Thornton has not her type. He was bad boyfriend material.
But he was her friend.
Her thumb hovered over the screen of her phone momentarily before tapping on their text thread, reading the one he’d sent last night just before she drifted off to sleep.
FOX （11:32 PM）： Today was a Hozier vibe for me.
HANNAH （11:33 PM）： My day was so very Amy Winehouse.
There was nothing friendlier than sharing what kind of music defined their day. It didn’t matter how much she looked forward to those nightly texts. Staying with Fox imposed no risk whatsoever. It was possible to be just friends with a man who exuded sex—and she would have no problem proving it.
Satisfied with her logic, Hannah got on the phone and started organizing.
Chapter Two
Fox settled back into his couch cushions and tipped a beer to his lips, taking a long sip to disguise the urge to laugh at the serious expression of the man sitting across from him. “What is this, Cap? An intervention?”
It wasn’t that he’d never seen Brendan looking disgruntled before. God knows he had. Fox just hadn’t seen the Della Ray’s captain anything but blissful for the last six months since meeting his fiancée, Piper. It was almost enough to make a man want to reevaluate his position on relationships.
Yeah. Right.
“No, it’s not an intervention,” Brendan said, adjusting the beanie on his head. Then taking it off altogether and resting it on his knee. “But if you keep putting off the conversation about taking over as captain, I might have to stage one.”
This marked the eighth time Brendan had asked him to step up and lead the crew. At first, he’d been nothing short of baffled. Had he given the impression he could be responsible for the lives of five men? If so, it must have been an accident. He was content to take orders, do his job well, and skedaddle with his cut of the haul, whether his earnings came from crabs in the fall or fishing the rest of the year.
Thriving under pressure was in a king crab fisherman’s blood. He’d stood beside Brendan on the Della Ray and stared death in the eye. More than once. But battling nature wasn’t the same as taking charge of a crew. Making decisions. Owning up to the mistakes he would inevitably make. That was a different kind of pressure entirely—and he wasn’t sure he was built for that. More specifically, he wasn’t sure the crew believed he was built to lead them. Speaking from a lot of experience, a fishing vessel’s team needed to have total trust in their captain. Any hesitation could cost a man his life. Those assholes barely took him seriously as a human being, let alone as the one giving orders.