Distracted √

Distracted: Chapter Nine

Erin found life aboard the catamaran comfortable. She didn't mind the close quarters and loved lounging in the wide cockpit while Spence handled the ship's wheel. She worked on her tan, wearing her bathing suit top and a pair of shorts. Spence wore a pair of trunks and his ever-present sunglasses. Behind her own sunglasses, Erin watched as he steered with little effort, adjusting the sheets and the sails from controls near his seat. Each morning, he turned on the autopilot and set a line, trolling for fish. On occasion, he caught something that he had to clean, cook, and eat alone.

Spence discovered that Erin was much better with the navigation charts and plotting a course than sautéing or baking. It amused him that she didn't bother to try to cook for him, unlike other women he had dated. Often, they tried to impress him with their domestic skills. Erin didn't bother.

They talked; she asked him about his family, his childhood and how he became an artist. Spence answered all of her questions, but he didn't pry. Still, she chatted about herself. In the evening, as agreed, they worked on his book. Erin felt triumphant after they finished the introduction.

"I'm glad it makes you happy," he said.

"Of course it does. It should please you, as well. I'm proud of you."

He laughed at her enthusiasm.

"They teach you positive reinforcement at grad school?"

"No. It comes from years of working with lazy, selfish artists who only think of themselves."

"Hey, I didn't volunteer for this."

"You signed a contract. You accepted the advance. You had a clue that a book is the end result."

* * *

On their fourth day out, Erin felt confident enough to raise the anchor. "I am so glad you have a fancy electric winch for this anchor," she said.

"Manual labor's good for you, but hoisting an anchor isn't," Spence replied, a cigar clenched between his teeth.

"Must you smoke that smelly thing?"

"Yeah. It's a vice. You want to try one?"

"No. Ick." She moved away from him, waving a hand in the air as if it were thick with smoke. In truth, she was getting used to the aromatic tobacco he used but she appreciated the fact that he smoked only one a day.

He tossed her a bottle. "Hey babe; how about some sunscreen?"

"I told you not to call me babe," she said, aggravation causing frown lines. She squirted white cream into her hands and began to stroke them up and down her arms, then her legs.

"I meant me," he complained.

"I know. Give me a minute."

He watched covertly as she squirted more into her hands and rubbed them on her belly and her breasts, sliding her fingers under her bikini top and straps.

"You want me to do your back?"

"Yes. You do me; I'll do you," she said, handing him the bottle and turning her back to him.

Spence swiveled and leaned back in the wide captain's seat. He tossed his cigar into waves and squirted sunscreen into his large, calloused hands.

His touch, rough and warm, startled Erin. He slid his big fingers over her shoulders, up her neck and rubbed her ears. "Don't want those to burn," he murmured. Then his hands returned, slathered with more lotion, and he ran them up and down her back, making small circles on her spine, sliding them around her waist. He slid his fingers into the loose elastic waistband of her shorts and pushed them down a few inches. Then he rubbed lotion on her lower back, his hands spreading and wrapping around her hips, cupping them. Erin tried to ignore the rapid beat of her heart, the tickling sensations of his warm hands.

"That's good," she said, pulling away. "Now you. Turn around."

Spence blotted his hands on a towel while he checked the autopilot then took off his faded ball cap and tossed it on the cockpit table.

"Do my face and ears, please." He removed his sunglasses and closed his eyes.

"You can do that yourself."

"No. You do it. I've wiped off my hands. I don't want to get the controls greasy."

Erin bit her lip. "Sounds like an excuse to me. You're just lazy."

"No; you're better than me. You get all the right spots."

"You want to be pampered."

Spence smiled, his eyes still closed. "I'll make something special for dinner tonight," he bargained.

Erin squirted a little lotion into her hands, rubbed them together and started applying it in small quick motions to his cheeks and ears. He turned his face into her hands like a dog angling for a scratch. She smiled and traced his stubbled chin, his broad forehead, his nose. "You need some zinc here," she said.

She shook the bottle and squirted more into her hands. She placed them on his shoulders, rubbing up and down the thick cords of his neck, then to the furry center of his bare chest.

"Why do you wear this," she asked, shoving her fingers under the ubiquitous St. Christopher's medal.

"It was my father's. My mother got it for him when they took a second honeymoon in Hawaii."

"Oh." Why did he have to be sentimental? Everyday he became a bit more appealing. It was most unnerving, especially when she was touching his warm skin. For a moment, she fantasized about leaning in and kissing his parted lips, burying her face into his neck and inhaling the sweet coconut scent of the lotion. Instead, she picked up the bottle of sunscreen, squirted some into her hand.

"This is empty," she said, running her hands along his right arm.

Spence put his sunglasses back on. "There's another bottle in the port locker."

She opened the trash locker and added the empty bottle to the growing pile of crushed soda cans and water bottles. Then she reached into the port locker, pushing aside bags of snorkel equipment and life preservers. Indeed, there was a case of sunscreen, the cardboard box ripped open. There were still a couple dozen bottles. "Why do you have so many?"

"It's easier. Suzy includes me when she orders bulk supplies."

"Humph. I suppose you go through a lot of this what with the models and actresses?" Erin wanted to toss the bottle at his head.

"Not me, babe," he said. "You're the first female to board this boat."

"Right," she drawled sarcastically. "Like I believe that. And don't call me babe," she huffed as she opened the new bottle. She lifted his left arm and squirted a thick line from his wrist to his bicep. She rubbed it in and then, wiping the excess lotion on her shorts bottom, turned the chair so Spence was facing the ocean. She squirted more than she needed on his back, spelling the word "jerk."

She slapped his back a couple of times and tossed the bottle onto the cockpit table. "Okay, all done."

"Aw, come on, Erin. You haven't finished my back. I'll get burned." He wheedled, "I'm making dinner, remember? You want me to grill steaks?"

She stared at the boat's wake, biting her lip. Why was she so angry? It was unreasonable, she knew, for her to feel nervous when close to him, or threatened by a thought of other women aboard his boat.

She stepped forward and rubbed the rest of the lotion into his skin. "There. Now you're done. And I want mushrooms and onions on my steak."

Spence watched as she picked up a beach towel and tote bag and headed for the bow of the boat. She spread the towel on the trampoline, pulled a visor and glasses out of the bag, and laid on her stomach, her head resting on her crossed arms.

He would never understand women, he thought, craving his cigar. One minute they're fine, the next they're not.

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