Captain Dreamboat (Ponderosa Resort Romantic Comedies Book 7) Page 10

  “And I’m sorry I ran out of here so fast after the bath thing.”

  That I didn’t expect. “If you want, we can pick back up where we left off.”

  She smiles, and it’s like a ray of sun coming out. “I don’t really think that’s a good idea,” she says. “Do you?”

  I think it’s a fucking fantastic idea, but I settle for shrugging. “I don’t see why not. We like each other. You’re single. Wait.” I frown, realizing we haven’t actually had this conversation. “You are single, right?”

  “Yes, and I’m planning to stay that way.” She bites her lip, tracing a thumbnail over the arm of the chair. “I like my alone time,” she says softly. “And I’m not looking for anything serious.”

  I watch the side of her face, fighting the urge to smile. “And I seem serious to you?”

  She looks up, startled. “That’s not what I meant. I wasn’t suggesting you want to get married and make babies, or even that you’re interested in me like that.”

  “Oh, I am. Interested, I mean. But I’m hardly in a position to start something serious, right? My whole life is sort of in limbo right now.”

  She considers that, then nods. “I suppose that’s true.”

  I decide to leave it at that. No sense in pushing. It’s enough to know neither of us is looking to start a relationship. A fling, on the other hand…

  “How are you doing with self-care?” she asks.

  “Um, good?”

  “What are you doing?”

  I glance at the laptop, wondering if I can pretend to be googling yoga techniques or deep breathing. A popup flickers on the screen.

  “Don’t go! Still want our article on ten tips for a healthy marriage?”

  I slam the laptop shut and look at Blanka. “All right, I suck at self-care.”

  She quirks an eyebrow at me. “You were working?”

  “Studying articles,” I admit. “Reviewing a business plan.”

  “I see.” She glances toward the other end of the porch. “And the cat’s still here. You’re still feeding it.”

  It isn’t a question, so I don’t bother denying it. I couldn’t anyway. She’s right, I’ve been feeding the cat every day. He’s not staying—I’m not staying—but I can at least make sure he’s well-fed while I’m around.

  The cat opens one eye and looks at me, then closes it again. “I’m still trying to get him to the vet,” I say. “He won’t let me pick him up to get him in the carrier.”

  “Jade at the reindeer ranch is a licensed vet,” she says. “She and Amber do spay and neuter clinics a couple times a year.”

  “Brandon’s wife Jade?” Mentally, I connect the dots from my cousin to his wife, then from Sean to his wife. “Got it. I see Amber all the time, but I’ve only met Jade once.”

  “Jade’s more hands-on with the ranch, so she doesn’t break away as often.”

  “Plus, Amber lives here at the resort.”

  “Right,” she says. “They’re pretty committed to caring for the cats that get dumped in the country. If you want, I can see if Jade can come take a look at—” she frowns at the pile of fur purring softly between us. “Does the cat have a name?”

  “I’m not naming him,” I tell her. “That would mean he’s staying.”

  That I’m staying. Which I definitely can’t do.

  “Right.” Blanka nods and stares out at the setting sun, a fiery orange cotton ball drifting slowly toward the mountains. Juniper-scented breeze ruffles the loose blonde hairs around her ears, and the sunlight on her face makes my breath stall in my chest.

  “But if I were naming him,” I continue, embarrassed to admit I’ve thought of this. “I’d name him Popeye.”

  The cat rolls onto his back, his preferred position for cleaning his plump belly. He’s licking his chest, using one catcher’s mitt paw to move the fur around. Damn, that’s adorable.

  “Popeye, huh?” Blanka studies the cat as though assessing the suitability of the name.

  “It’s from this kids’ cartoon about a sailor who eats spinach and—”

  “I know about Popeye,” she says, nodding at the cat’s exposed underbelly. “I’m just thinking Olive Oyl would be more fitting.”

  “What? How do you—oh.”

  I take a closer look at the cat, realizing I have no idea how to distinguish one set of cat genitals from another. “You can really pick out a cat schlong in all the fur?”

  She laughs and shakes her head. “No. It’s the distended nipples.” She says this with perfect clinical indifference, no trace of self-consciousness at all. “She’s had babies before. Must have been sometime before she got spayed.”

  “She’s spayed?”

  Blanka points at the cat’s head. “That’s what the tipped ear means. They do that at the feral cat spay and neuter clinics to let people know the animal has been altered.”

  “Damn.” I pause. “Is there anything you don’t know?”

  “Plenty of things.” Blanka smiles and leans back in her chair. “I’ve never been on a big ship like the kind you drive. Steer. Whatever the verb is.”

  “Pilot,” I say, charmed all over again. “Or helm could work. Depending on the kind of boat, you could also say sail.”

  She smiles. “Canoeing is more my speed. I have my own. I take it up to the high lakes all the time.”

  “No kidding? Canoes are heavy as hell.”

  She shrugs. “I watched YouTube videos on how to move one by yourself. It’s all about center of gravity.”

  And fierce independence, I imagine. Either way, Blanka’s kickass strong.

  I stretch my legs out in front of me, picturing myself in a canoe. It’s been ages since I found myself on a watercraft that wasn’t eighty feet long. “I’m dying to get back on the water,” I admit.

  Crossing her legs, Blanka fiddles with the frayed denim on one knee. “When does your doctor say it’ll be okay?”

  “I’ll find out at my next appointment. She told me last time it could be soon. Light paddling, nothing too strenuous.”

  “Fingers crossed.”

  “Thanks.” I glance back at the cat, who is still cleaning his—er her—belly. “Jessica.”

  Blanka blinks at me. “What?”

  “That’s what I’d name the cat,” I say. “If I were going to name her. Which I’m not.”

  She frowns. “Jessica? Is that—a girlfriend?”

  The furrow in her brow could almost lead me to think she’s jealous. But no, she’s just looking for information. “You think I’d have kissed you if I had a girlfriend?”

  Shrugging, she glances away. “I don’t know you all that well. Plenty of guys have a loose grasp on the concept of fidelity.”

  Something hot flares unwelcome in my chest. There’s a ringing in my ears, the sound of my mother’s voice and the clang of the spaghetti pot cracking the wall above my father’s head.

  “Goddammit, Cort—you have zero concept of fidelity.”

  That was so long ago, but the smell of tomato sauce burns my nostrils. I look down to see my hands clenched into fists. “I’d never do that,” I tell Blanka, forcing my fingers to uncurl. “Never.”

  She studies my face, assessing me. “It wasn’t an accusation. Plenty of people have open relationships. Or she could be an ex-girlfriend or—”

  “No.” I shake my head, still trying to rid myself of the memory. “Jessica Watson was the youngest person to sail solo around the world without assistance. This cat—she seems pretty independent.”

  Blanka nods and glances back at the snaggle-toothed feline. “Jessica,” she says, trying it out.

  The cat looks up and narrows her eyes in irritation. She doesn’t appear to approve of the name. Which is not her name, because I’m not naming this cat.

  “She likes it,” Blanka says. “Or she likes you.”

  “Yeah, I can tell by how she’s glaring at me.”

  “That’s not a glare. Cats narrow their eyes to express comfort with people or other cats
or situations. It’s a sign of trust.”

  “Really?” I glance back at the cat and practice narrowing my eyes at her. She does it back to me. “We’re blowing kisses at each other.”

  “Pretty much.” Blanka’s smile lights up my whole front porch. “So how’s the recovery going?”

  “Good,” I tell her. “I took Bree and Austin’s dog for a walk this morning. Helped Izzy pack up some souvenirs to ship to her family in Dovlano. Took Libby to volunteer at the Ronald McDonald House.”

  “Libby—that’s Chelsea’s daughter?”

  “Mark’s stepdaughter,” I say, nodding. “She met a bunch of pediatric cancer patients in Portland. I promised her when we got home, we’d find a place here to cheer up sick kids.”

  “That’s really sweet of you. How about relaxation?”

  “Like I said—I sorta suck at self-care.”

  She shakes her head, her expression somewhere between pity and admiration. “If you did half as good a job taking care of yourself as you do other people, you’d be the healthiest guy on the planet.”

  “I’m healthy.” I lift the hem of my shirt to show my healing incisions. “Fit as a fiddle.”

  Her gaze locks on my abs and holds, pupils flaring. Her lips part slightly, and she makes a strangled sound in her throat. I order myself not to gloat. Not to feel smug she’s checking me out.

  But I can’t help loving that she digs my body. It’s only fair, since I’m nuts about hers.

  I take my time dropping the hem of my shirt. “I guess I don’t know where to start,” I admit. “With the self-care thing. Besides the bubble bath.”

  She smiles, cheeks flushing at the shared memory. “That was just a practice run.”

  “I tried again,” I admit. “It wasn’t as fun without dish soap and milk in a champagne flute.”

  And you. You’re what made it fun.

  Blanka laughs and flicks her hand toward the laptop. “You’ve got a computer right there. Google ‘self-care ideas.’ Let’s see if we can come up with more options.”

  It’s dumb that I haven’t thought of doing this already. Figuring out ways to take care of my own damn self.

  But I’ve been busy, and I guess it never crossed my mind. “Right.”

  I flip the laptop open to wake it, toggling quick to escape the marriage popup. I open a Google search window and plug in the words. The computer whirs, then offers a zillion headlines for articles about self-care. There’s stuff about classes and meditation and yoga and—

  “There.” Blanka points at the screen. “Try that one. Thirty-seven tips for self-care. There must be something in that.”

  I click and start to scroll, skimming past the author’s long narration about his yoga vacation to Costa Rica and a family history of depression.

  When I get to the bolded subheads, I start to read aloud. “Inhale an upbeat smell.” I look at Blanka. “What is an upbeat smell?”

  “Bacon,” she says without hesitation. “Fabric softener. Fresh grass. Peaches. Gravel driveways after a rainstorm. Puppy breath.”

  Wow. “That is impressively specific.”

  She looks pleased. “Thanks.” Her smile makes my heart catch in my chest. A faint breeze lifts the scent of lupines from her hair to my nostrils, and my heart stutters again.

  You. You’re an upbeat smell.

  I’m glad I don’t say that out loud because it sounds creepy.

  “What are your upbeat smells?” she asks.

  I hesitate, buying myself some time “Salty sea air. My brother’s homemade chicken sausage with sage. Juniper. Chocolate chip cookies. My mother’s face cream.”

  She cocks her head. “What brand is it?”

  “The face cream?” It never occurred to me to wonder. “I’m not sure.”

  “My mother always wore one that smelled like roses,” Blanka says, smiling faintly. “Every time I’m in a rose garden, it’s like I’m back in my childhood bedroom with my mom singing Ukrainian folk songs as I fall asleep.”

  “Same.” I can’t believe we share this same memory. “Not roses or the folk songs, but whatever my mother’s face cream is. There’s something crazy-soothing about the scent of it.”

  She smiles again, and I turn my attention back to the laptop screen so I don’t reach for her. “Oh.” I scan the article, surprised to see there’s an actual description. “According to this, upbeat smells are things like lavender and peppermint.”

  Blanka shrugs and tucks her blonde hair behind one ear. “I like ours better.”

  So do I.

  I also like the idea of there being an ours or a we or anything that links the two of us together.

  I keep skimming, desperate to keep myself from going too far down that path. “Meditation,” I read. “Stroke a pet.”

  We both look down at Jessica, who stares back at us with wide green eyes and her snaggletooth on full display. One ear twitches, but she doesn’t blink.

  “Can I pet you?” I jab a finger toward the screen. “It says right here I’m supposed to.”

  The cat stands up and moves to the edge of the porch out of reach. I shift the laptop to my other thigh and lean out to stroke the back of her head, determined not to give up so easily.

  “Brrrrow!” She gives a low growl and takes a swipe at my hand.

  “Maybe not.” I center the laptop back across my knees and keep scrolling. “Cloud watching,” I read off.

  That one gives me pause. I tip my head back to survey a pair of wispy pink clouds drifting slowly across the horizon. Blanka does the same, leaning her head back so the end of her ponytail brushes my arm.

  “Damn,” I murmur. “That’s really pretty.”

  I might not be talking about the sky.

  Blanka smiles and points at one oddly-shaped cloud. “Is it just me or does that look like a giraffe?”

  “I don’t see it,” I admit. “All I see are big, fluffy balls of pink cotton candy.”

  “And do you find that soothing?”

  “Maybe a little.” Mostly it gives me a craving for something sweet.

  Blanka shifts again, and my lungs fill with her sweetness. Not just her fragrance, but all of her. I release an accidental sigh of pleasure, and Blanka laughs.

  “See? It’s working already.”

  An oblong ball of cotton candy cloud inches past the tip of South Sister, then seems to snag on Middle Sister. “Looks like that one may not make it all the way to North Sister.”

  Blanka throws me a curious look. “You’ve memorized the mountains?”

  “Sure, I’ve been coming here since I was a kid.”

  “I still get them mixed up all the time.”

  I start pointing them out from south to north. “Mt. Bachelor, Broken Top, South Sister, Middle Sister, North Sister, Mt. Washington, Three Fingered Jack, and Mt. Jefferson.” I squint at the horizon. “I can sometimes see Mt. Hood on a clear day.”

  She pretends to applaud. “Very impressive.”

  I give a mock bow, delighted by her reaction. “A good mariner knows his landmarks.” That’s something Chuck used to say to me, and the words pinch tight coming up my throat. “Especially the ones that lead the way home.”

  Home.

  There’s that word again, slipping out before I’ve thought things through. I wonder if Blanka notices.

  “What else?” she asks. “Does the article have any other self-care suggestions?”

  I turn my attention back to the screen. “Breathing exercises.” I make a note of that one, reminding myself to learn some. “Do a beauty scavenger hunt. What the hell is that?”

  Blanka peers over my shoulder and starts to read. “Post pictures online of your favorite nail polish, lipstick, foundation, etc., and urge friends to do the same. It’s a great way of sharing some of your can’t-live-without-it products.” She looks up at me. “I think you can give that one a pass.”

  “I like that lipstick you wear,” I tell her honestly. “The one that tastes like peppermint.”

 
Her cheeks flush, and she licks her lips. “Burt’s Bees. It’s a tinted lip balm.”

  “Scavenger hunt completed.” I grin. “I feel better already.”

  I’d feel better if I were kissing her, tasting that minty coolness as her tongue grazes mine.

  But Blanka keeps her focus on the computer. I draw a finger down the trackpad, moving to the next section of the article. “Get to know yourself intimately,” she reads. “Oh.”

  I peer at the screen, pretty sure she’s messing with me. “Self-soothing is an art form,” I read. “It sure is.”

  She laughs and keeps reading. “Your body is your temple, and it deserves a treat. Give your body ten minutes of mindful attention.”

  “Or longer,” I add. “Sometimes it’s better to take your time.”

  Her giggle and the pink flush in her cheeks has me desperate to touch her.

  “Gaze upon your naked form,” she says.

  “What?”

  She points to the screen. “That’s the next one. The next time you’re nude, take a moment to stand naked before the mirror and repeat the following—‘I’m a beautiful sunflower, fragile and proud, mighty and soft.’” She looks at me and snorts. “I would pay one million dollars to see you do that.”

  I set the laptop on the chair and hop to my feet. “Let’s go.”

  “I’m kidding, you idiot.” She waves away the hand I’ve extended to help her up. “I don’t have a million dollars anyway.”

  Now is not the time to admit there are many millions in the trust fund my father left me, or that I’d give all of it away for five minutes naked in a room with Blanka.

  I heave an overly dramatic sigh and return to my seat. “You’re really killing my self-care plans.”

  She laughs and pushes her ponytail off her shoulder “Tell you what,” she says. “As soon as the doctor clears you for rowing, I’ll take you out canoeing on Elk Lake.”

  “Elk Lake.” I haven’t been there yet, but the idea of being out on the water again sounds magical. “That’s one of the high Cascade Lakes?”

  “Yes.” She frowns. “Wait, can you get an actual doctor’s note saying you’re cleared for paddling? And for the possibility of submersion if the boat tips.”

  “You planning to push me in?”