Chapter 19

MACKENZIE

A fter dinner, I retreat to my room. Like an idiot, I still can't seem to let what happened with Dylan go and I have no idea why. It shouldn't mean anything to me. He shouldn't mean anything to me. But the disappointment of it all has fallen heavy, like a weight in my bones. Even after last weekend, I'd thought Dylan was different.

But he's just like the rest of them.

Wishing I had something else to occupy my thoughts, I decide to set up the easel I'd retrieved from Pamela's unwanted hobby pile. Then I pull the canvas out from the corner of the room and perch it on its rail, hoping it will provide me with a much-needed distraction.

I sit back on my bed examining it and try to envision something, anything, that I could paint on it. Thanks to Betty and May's commentary yesterday, the only subject that comes to mind right now is the very person I'm trying to avoid.

It doesn't matter anyway. I'm feeling less than inspired right now. I had begun to seriously consider Grace's invitation to the exhibition night, but if I can't find my muse, I'll be attending as a visitor and not an exhibitor.

Frustrated, I throw myself back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.

"Mackenzie!" I hear Kristen call from down the hall. "Someone's at the door! Can you get it? I'm naked!"

"Ugh. Where's Henley?" I grumble, then thinking better of it I add, "Don't answer that."

I stomp down the hallway to the front door and swing it wide open.

"Hi," Dylan says cheerfully from the other side of it, his eyes the colour of burnt caramel.

"What are you doing here?" My glare narrows in suspicion.

"Picking you up, remember?"

I shake my head in annoyance, huffing out a sigh. "I told you I'm not going with you."

"Yes, you are," he says cheekily, his eyes travelling down to the Scooby-doo pyjama pants I'm wearing. "I'll wait here while you get ready. Or you could just wear those if you like. I don't mind."

"You can wait out here all night for all I care. I'm not going anywhere." I prepare to shut the door in his face, but what he says next catches me off guard.

"I thought you might say that. That's why I brought a book along with me."

"You're kidding," I say, calling his bluff.

"I'm really not."

I roll my eyes as he reaches into his jacket and pulls out a thick, heavy book, his grin spreading wider. He wasn't kidding.

I read the title aloud. "‘Shark Biology and Conservation: Essentials for Educators, Students and Enthusiasts.' Well, have fun with that."

The hinges creak as I begin to close the door, but his hand comes up to hold it open. "I'll wait as long as it takes, but I'm not leaving until my reputation is intact."

"Whatever." This time I do slam the door with way too much force and the sound reverberates throughout the small cottage.

I storm back to my room, passing Kristen in the hallway as I go. She frowns at my sullen expression. "What's up with you?"

"Nothing," I mutter as I enter my room and fall back onto my bed, resting my head up against the bedhead.

Stupid Dylan and his stupid, persistent attitude.

No more than a minute later, Kristen is back, arms folded as she leans against the doorframe. "Um, Mackenzie? Why is Dylan sitting on our front porch reading a textbook?"

"He likes reading?" I offer.

"Mac, come on. What's going on?" She moves into the room, taking a seat at the end of my bed.

I sigh, knowing she isn't going to leave until I give her an answer. "He wants me to go somewhere with him."

"Why?"

My answer rushes out of me in one breath. "Because I may have accused him of participating in illegal dealings and he wants to clear his name."

Kristen narrows her eyes at me, a sceptical smile spreading across her face. "Dylan? He's like… the nicest person."

"Sure." I shrug. "They all seem nice until you find out they're not."

Her grin fades. "I know your past experiences make it hard for you to trust, but I really do think he's a good guy," she says earnestly. "And something tells me he likes you."

"Oh yeah?" I question cynically. "What could possibly make you think that?"

"The fact that he's sitting on our front porch reading a book when he could literally be anywhere else," she deadpans.

My eyes roll back until they're focused on the ceiling. "Fair point."

"You owe him the chance to at least explain whatever it is you're accusing him of."

She's right. As much as I hate to admit it. If Dylan says he can explain the interaction I saw in the alley yesterday, then I owe it to him to at least listen.

"Fine," I grumble, springing upright. "But if my body turns up dead in a ditch somewhere, don't say I didn't warn you."

"Your dramatics are truly something to be admired." Kristen stands up, then a moment later I hear her feet padding gently down the hallway.

"Kristen!" Henley calls out from their bedroom. "Hurry up and get your ass back in here!"

Ugh. Getting out of the house for a while suddenly sounds more appealing than ever. I change into my denim cut-off shorts and pull on a pair of ankle boots before marching back down the hall. I throw the front door open with a little too much gusto. It clangs against the wall with a thud before swinging shut. Dylan looks up from his book, his eyebrows raised in question.

"Let's get this over with," I say as I strut over to his car.

I can hear the smirk in his voice as he casually follows behind me. "Always such a ray of sunshine."

"Don't push your luck, Abbott."

I'm at war with the passenger side door handle when I feel his breath on my neck. "Need some help?"

Frustrated, I step aside, my posture stiffening as I cross my arms over my chest. Dylan gives the handle a jiggle and the door swings open. It only aggravates me further when he stands there waiting for me to climb into the car so he can close the door behind me.

He energetically throws himself into the driver's seat and pulls on his seatbelt. I almost smile at the way his eyes squeeze shut in silent prayer as he turns the key in the ignition, only opening them once the engine has roared to life. When I see him like this, it's hard to envision the version of him that drove a Ferrari through the city streets.

"Please tell me you're not taking me on another hour-long journey to the cape," I complain, combing a hand through my hair as I shift my sights out the window.

"Nope," he replies.

"Where are we going then?"

"Not far."

He is true to his word. Within minutes we're parked out the front of a warehouse just down from the marina. It's not a well-lit area and there are barely any other people around. I had only been kidding when I made that comment to Kristen about my body ending up in a ditch, but seeing how derelict this end of town is has me on high alert.

"What is this?" I ask.

"Come on," he says, opening his door. "I'll show you."

Hesitantly, I step out of the car and follow him to the padlocked doors of the large building in front of us, the ocean behind it black in the night. The lone streetlight above us flickers on and off, emanating an eery glow.

Dylan shuffles around the side of the building, climbing up on a stack of tyres to peer in through the high windows. His actions don't exactly scream legit.

"So let me get this straight," I begin. "In order for you to explain the shifty conversation I heard you having in an alleyway, you've brought me to the shadiest looking place in town to perform a break and enter."

His laugh echoes across the bay as he jumps down from the stack of tyres. Then he pulls out a single key from his jacket pocket. "I have a key, Kenz."

"Then what the hell are you doing spying in the windows of a building you already have a key to?"

"I just wanted to make sure…" he stops short, taking a breath before he goes on. "Okay. This is going to sound weird no matter how I say it, so hear me out. Promise you'll let me finish."

"That depends," I say.

He scratches his forehead, seemingly contemplating the best way to explain himself. "I was checking the windows to make sure that Roy wasn't inside."

"And who exactly is Roy?" I ask.

"The guy you saw me with in the alley."

I nod once, then taking a step backward, I turn on my heel.

"I'm out of here."

"Kenz, please," he pleads, rushing around in front of me, his hands held up in defence. "It isn't what it looks like. I lease this warehouse and sometimes I let Roy stay here."

"Why?" I ask, throwing my arms up in the air in frustration.

Nothing he's saying is making any sense.

"He's homeless."

My feet pause in their place as my eyes snap to his. "Okay. You have my attention."

"He isn't a bad guy, but he has nowhere to go. I met him at the back of the tavern one day looking for food in the dumpster. I've kind of gotten to know him over the past few months and I allowed him to use this space for shelter."

"Okay," I say. "Then why the exchange of money in the alley the other day? What was that all about?"

"He offered to help me out with some odd jobs. To pay me back for letting him stay here. I gave him some money to buy some supplies. He brought them here to the warehouse and then delivered the change to me at the back of the tavern."

Showing generosity towards a homeless person is definitely not a crime. It's admirable even, but still, something doesn't sit right with this situation. I have more questions. Questions I really hope he can answer. "But I saw you give him something too."

"Yeah. The spare key to the warehouse," he explains. "Plus, I gave the change back to him and told him to buy a meal at the tavern on me."

"You told him to keep it on the downlow."

He lifts his arm, scratching the back of his neck. "Yeah. I did. Otherwise, I could end up with a whole bunch of people trying to take shelter in this warehouse."

That makes sense to an extent, I guess. "What kind of supplies did he buy you?"

"Paint."

"Top grade paint?" I squint at him sceptically.

"Marine grade," he fires back.

I stare at him in awe, the silence of the night falling over us for a moment before I find the words I want to say next. "You trusted a homeless guy with your own cash, then let him stay in a warehouse that your name is assigned to. He could be anyone. How can you do that?"

His shoulders jump up in a small shrug as he tucks his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "I guess I just choose to see the good in people."

There's an ache in my chest hearing those words. Not only have I chosen to jump to the worst possible conclusion about Dylan, but I'm also constantly looking for the worst in everyone. I squeeze my eyes shut, then look away. "And I'm a complete asshole."

"No, Kenz. You aren't," he sighs, reaching forward to comb my hair behind my ear. I flinch as his fingers graze my jawline. His touch is slight, but it sets my skin on fire. "I get why your mind went to a dark place. And you don't owe me anything. Not your trust. Not anything. Look, I'm not perfect. In fact, I'm far from it, but I swear to you, I would never do anything to hurt you."

He steps toward me, closing the space between us. My heart beats out of sync when I feel his hand in mine. "I can promise you that."

A hurricane of thoughts whir through my mind.

I'm hearing him, but all I can see is flashing lights and neon signs of warning. My heart longs to let him in, but my mind looks for reasons to push him away. I'm not ready to open up to him.

Not yet.

I swallow down the lump in my throat, sliding my hand out from his. "Why do you have a warehouse anyway? Why do you need marine grade paint?"

"Will you let me show you?" It sounds like such a simple question, but it carries with it a cathartic undertone. He trusts me with whatever he has in that warehouse.

"Okay."

He turns, moving toward the building where he slips the key inside the padlock. The doors squeak loudly as they slide along their tracks, revealing a vast black space. He beckons me to come forward, holding out his hand despite the pitch-black darkness inside.

Hesitantly, I step forward and slip my palm into his again, ignoring the wave of electricity that shoots through my core. He pulls me into the shadows, drawing me into his warmth as his other hand searches the wall for the light switch.

A few seconds later, a fluorescent light flickers above before bathing the whole space in bright light. The warehouse is huge, taking up twice the amount of space as Kristen and Henley's house would. A pitched roof hangs high above us and there are random pieces of hardware scattered on its outskirts. Tools, paint cans, buckets full of various cleaning products, and there in the centre of it all, a work in progress.

A passion project.

A boat propped up on stands.

"Wow," I whisper, my mouth gaping open as I take it all in. I wander toward the huge vessel, trailing my fingers along its paint-chipped hull. I don't know much about boats, but I can tell this one needs a lot of work. "Is it yours?"

"Sure is."

He motions for me to follow him around to the stern, where a ladder rests up against it. He swiftly climbs it, jumping into the back, then he leans forward to take my hand as I follow him up.

I clamber aboard, looking around in amazement. There are several seats at the back and a few at the front, a cabin in the centre where a steering wheel sits on a dash that looks a little worse for wear.

"You bought a boat? How?" The second I ask the question I realise how silly it sounds. "Oh, of course. You're rich."

He lets out a laugh. " Was rich."

"Sure. Okay. So you bought this back when you were rich?" I smirk.

"If I'd have been loaded when I bought it, I would have bought one that didn't need so much work."

I contemplate this. "Fair point."

"Actually, that's probably not true." He tilts his head to the side in thought, a hint of aversion in his tone as he continues. "My whole life I've had people there to do everything for me. Clean my house, cook my food, dry-clean my clothes. I mean, I've grown up with a mother who pays people to organise her closet and a father that has someone drive him to his meetings. It's kind of sickening when I really think about it."

I quirk an eyebrow, absorbing his words. It's moments like this that make me realise how vastly different our lives have been. "Does this little diatribe of yours have a point?"

He aims a smile my way, then he turns and runs his hand along the edges of the boat. "I know. I know. I sound like an ungrateful asshole. It's just that, in all honesty, I grew tired of paying people to do things I'm capable of doing on my own. That's why I chose this boat. I wanted to take something that needed some love and make it my own. Rebuild it from the ground up. Does that make sense?

"Yeah. It does."

"When I first told my father that working for the company wasn't working out for me, I had my suspicions that he might try something extreme," he explains. "And I was right. I was supposed to receive my trust fund when I turned twenty-one, but he pulled some strings and had the funds withheld until I turn thirty."

"He can do that?"

"Sure. It pays to have friends in high places, I guess." He huffs out a sour laugh. "I knew from that moment that this was the way he was going to control me. With money. And that was the same moment I decided I didn't care. I just wanted to do something worthwhile. Something that made me happy. So, I worked for him for a bit longer. Then I took what I had left in my account, paid upfront for a couple of years to lease this warehouse and I bought this boat."

"You did all of this before you even moved to Cliff Haven?"

He nods. "This is it. This is my dream."

"To have your own boat?"

"To have my own charter boat," he corrects. "I want to start my own company. To specialise in taking people out to see endangered species and educating them on conservation."

"Endangered species, huh?" I say, quirking an eyebrow. "Like the one you tried to show me?"

His chuckle reverberates off the warehouse walls. "You're never going to let that go, are you?"

"Probably not." I fight to keep a grin contained.

He walks to the front of the cabin, wrapping his hands around the steering wheel. "I can see it now. This baby all fixed up, the open sea ahead." He playfully waves an arm in front as though imagining the ocean before us.

"So, this is it?" I ask, moving in beside him. "This is why you gave up all of your money."

"This is the dream."

"Does she float?"

"Probably not," he laughs. "But she will. Hey, you should have seen her when I first got her. She was in even worse shape than this."

"Even worse than this?" I mock, jabbing him in the ribs. It has me remembering the tattoo I'd seen the day of the tour. The script that made its way across his torso. "Fortune favours the brave, huh?"

He lets out a breath, dipping his chin to his chest before his eyes find mine again. "You think I'm insane, don't you."

"No," I say, daring to lean in closer. "Right now, I think you're the coolest person I've ever met."

"Really?" he whispers, lowering his head to mine. His breath is warm on my cheek as I inhale the scent of cologne and fresh linen.

"Yeah," I whisper back, touching my forehead to his. "But don't get too excited. That could change tomorrow."

He smiles, his eyes lingering on my mouth before his lips gently graze mine. Then I close the gap between us. I seemed to have somehow quietened the negative thoughts, given my heart free rein.

Heat shoots up my spine as his tongue caresses mine, slowly but with purpose. His arms curl around my waist, pulling me in against him. When my hands find their way into his hair, I surrender myself to the moment. I lose my breath, the butterflies bouncing off the walls of my chest as his fingers glide upward from my hips, his thumbs dragging along the skin there.

And that's when everything falls apart.

I haven't experienced this feeling in what seems like a lifetime, but the memory is there, raw and real. There's only been one other time I've ever felt remotely like this.

And it didn't end well.

And just like that, the spell is broken.

It's too much. Too soon.

My palms push against Dylan's chest as I gasp for air, hating myself, but hating him more.

Ethan.

The one who broke my spirit. Who left me a mere shell.

Dylan lets me go immediately, but I don't miss the hurt in his expression.

"I'm sorry," I say, backing away, my body trembling.

"Don't be," he rasps, his gravelly voice low but unexpectedly comforting. "It's okay."

I shake my head. "It's not. I'm sorry," I repeat as I stare at the floor of the boat between us.

"Kenz." I close my eyes as he utters the nickname he's given me, his voice a mere whisper as he slowly steps forward. He reaches out, tilting my face up to meet his. The sincerity in his gaze crushes me. "It's okay. Come on. I'll take you home."

I nod, allowing him to lead me down the ladder and back to the car.