Storm Surge by Celia Ashley

suitcase onto the chair, his hair plastered to his head. He hadn’t bothered with shoes and was better off without them. She wriggled her toes and watched the liquid force its way out of the canvas.
    “Son of a bitch.”
    “Paige, your mouth…”
    She glanced up in time to witness his smile. Without another word, he went into the bathroom and returned with two towels, lobbing one in her direction. She slipped off her shoes and hurried to the room he’d vacated and shut the door. She stripped off her wet garments and toweled dry, then tugged her bathrobe on. Upon exiting the bathroom, she found Liam still shirtless, wringing water from his T-shirt into the kitchen sink. The towel lay beneath his feet, absorbing the spillage on the floor and drainage from his jeans. At the sound of a bird outside the window despite the fearsome weather, he lifted his head to listen.
    “‘Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet near day: It was the nightingale, and not the lark, that pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear,’” Paige quoted quietly.
    Liam glanced over his shoulder. “What?”
    “Never mind.” She had no intention of revealing she’d quoted Shakespeare to him. He already thought her brazen and strange. It occurred to her Liam Gray might be more conservative than his appearance suggested. Grabbing fresh clothes for bed, she went back into the bathroom and dressed. Upon her return, Liam still had not put on his shirt. The garment hung over the sink edge, no longer dripping but crinkled and translucent. Palms planted on stainless steel, he leaned toward the window, not looking through the glass but at her reflection in it.
    “Liam?”
    “I’ll lock the door.”
    “You can’t. You need a key. It secures from the inside.”
    “I’m aware of that.” He strode to the door and turned the deadbolt, standing a moment with his body inches from the wood panel, immobile except for his breathing.
    Paige studied his long, lean back, the solid structure of his arms, and could barely catch a breath, causing her voice to come out as little more than a whisper. “I figured you’d be going right home.”
    “So did I, but I need to talk to you.”
    Ah. Okay. Talking. Paige cleared her suitcase from the chair so Liam could sit. She climbed up onto the mattress, situating herself in the center, legs bent and tucked into a position to support her arms across her knees. She lowered her chin onto a forearm. He took his seat.
    “Go ahead,” she encouraged him when he hesitated. “Whatever you need to say, I’m a big girl. I can take it.”
    A run of his fingers through his hair sprayed droplets on the wall behind and over his shoulders. His nipples rose in chilled response. She looked away.
    “It’s not anything you might imagine. I’m not even sure where to begin.”
    “I can imagine a great deal,” she said. “And begin at the beginning.”
    Grunting, he turned his head and folded his arms over his bare chest, casting about the room in mute search. She went and rummaged through the small dresser until she found a shirt and handed it to him.
    “I like to wear loose clothing to bed.” Not waiting to witness how he responded to her statement, she returned to her comfortable roost on the mattress. He slipped a large T-shirt on without comment.
    “Okay, so what is it you want to tell me?”
    He pushed his hair back again. Paige watched the water spray across the borrowed shirt in a random pattern. In the gloom, his pupils widened, darkening his eyes to jet. A sense of premonition stole over Paige. Something bad was coming.
    “About nine months ago,” he began, “I had the trawler out, more than forty-five miles off the coast in deep water. Cod and haddock were running like I’d never seen them. The crew, well, they were willing to stay out despite a storm approaching because it looked to be the best haul yet. Promised to be really good money. I figured we could race the weather in, beat the worst of it. And we would have, even