Read Rock the Boat: A Griffin Bay Novel Online
Authors: Lib Starling
Rock the Boat: A Griffin Bay Novel
ROCK THE BOAT
A Griffin Bay Novel
*.*.*
Lib Starling
Jordan Griffin has worked hard to make her charter sailing business a success. But years of catering to rich, entitled clients have finally worn her down. She’s on the verge of giving up when she gets a request for a mysterious charter… and it’s accompanied by a suspiciously large payment. The money will set her up for a year, allowing her to figure out where her life is headed. But payments that large don’t come from pleasant clients. Jordan braces for the worst… but
the worst
doesn’t even begin to describe what she finds waiting at her slip.
Davis Steen is a world-famous rock star, but his fame is fading. His manager sends him on a ten-day sailing vacation with one clear directive: use the time to figure out exactly where his career is going or the record label will drop him. But the last thing Davis wants is contemplation. The serenity of the San Juan Islands only amplifies his doubts—and Davis would rather sail away from his problems than confront them head-on. He’s eager to have a good time the only way he knows how: with booze, loud music… and debauchery.
Davis clashes hard with the sexy but straight-laced captain. Despite her irritation with his party-boy image, Jordan finds Davis’s alpha personality and gorgeous body impossible to resist. The fire that flares between them is stoked more by fury than affection. But when they can no longer deny their attraction, the captain and the rock star must learn to see eye-to-eye. If they can chart a course together, they’ll turn hate into love… and find unexpected passion filling their sails.
ROCK THE BOAT
A Griffin Bay Novel
TABLE OF CONTENTS
For Paul.
Boatswains mate, no apostrophe.
J
ordan came around the corner of the old, rough-hewn limestone building too fast and nearly collided with a herd of tourists making their way up the gentle slope of Spring Street. Stifling a curse, she hoisted her paper coffee cup over her head so it wouldn’t spill and picked her way step by step across the crowd. She’d learned from a lifetime of experience that tourists this close to the ferry landing seldom paid attention to anything other than the town’s quaint, inviting main street—its old-time shop fronts; its warm, welcoming vibe. She couldn’t blame the tourists for staring, for being oblivious to everything but Griffin Bay’s magical charm. The town’s cozy, enduring feel was what she loved best about living in Griffin Bay. Nothing in the nearby cities of Seattle and Bellingham, Washington, could compare to Griffin Bay’s soft, soothing glow. Its distinctive peace was the feature that drew large crowds every summer, as the city dwellers of the Northwest came looking for a little slice of paradise to take their minds off the hustle and bustle of their day-to-day lives. But Jordan knew that when the ferry was in and the crowds were in flood tide, the coffee had better go up over her head, or she’d soon be wearing it on her shirt. None of these mainlanders could watch where they were going—not during those first blissful moments in Griffin Bay.
She squeezed through the crowd and stepped over the curb into the street. Better to walk in the road from here; the sidewalks were just too packed, with the offloading ferry only a block away. She sighed with relief and took a sip of her latte the moment she was free of the crowd. Then she hurried downhill toward the marina, skimming along between the angle-parked cars and the slow-driving vehicles that disgorged from inside the cavernous ferry.
Jordan knew she really ought to feel a bit more welcoming toward all these summer visitors. Griffin Bay, positioned on the leeward side of San Juan Island and isolated from mainland Washington by an hour-long ferry trip, relied on tourism to keep its quaint little wheels turning. There was almost no one Jordan knew who didn’t depend on a busy summer season to carve out a living. She herself was heavily invested in the tourism trade—a fact that only made her grit her teeth today as she forced herself toward the marina—toward her job. But lately she had found herself longing for a much simpler life.
The mere thought made her snort a laugh into her latte. Life didn’t get much simpler than in Griffin Bay. It was the only town on San Juan Island—and though the whole moss-covered rock didn’t even have five thousand year-round residents, Griffin Bay somehow managed to be the largest town in the archipelago. There wasn’t even a stoplight on San Juan.
And I want a simpler life than this?
Jordan knew she was being unreasonable. And yet, life
had
gotten unbearably complicated for Jordan in recent weeks. She couldn’t deny that… and she didn’t know what to do about it.
That’s not true
, she told herself sternly.
You
do
know what you need to do. You need to quit—give up the business and move on to something that actually makes you happy
.
Jordan didn’t know yet exactly what would make her happy. She hadn’t allowed herself to think that far ahead. For now, all she knew for was that the business she had worked so hard to build wasn’t doing the trick anymore—if it ever had. She had to figure out exactly where she belonged—and fast, before she drove herself crazy with worry.
When an elderly driver slowed down to gape at Griffin Bay’s main street, Jordan took advantage of the stopped traffic to dodge across the road. With a few more rushed steps she was on the boardwalk overlooking the harbor—the neat rows of the marina docks with their adornments of gleaming, white-hulled boats; the calm water beyond, reflecting the clear sky in shades of sapphire and cobalt blue; the dark, forested slopes of the other islands beyond, rising almost vertically from the calm, blue-green waters of the Salish Sea. Boats moved busily in and out of the harbor, those with sails—Jordan’s favorite kind—heeling and kicking up foam when they reached the outer waters where the wind was brisk and unimpeded.
Nearby, from her own slip at Steele Marina, she could see the two masts of her oyster schooner, the
Coriolis
, rising above the masts of surrounding boats. Ordinarily the sight of her boat—her baby!—filled her with happiness and a craving for adventure, for the wind in her hair and the rocking of the waves. Today she only stared at it in glum silence and took another absent-minded sip of her latte.
It’s time to let it go. I gave this business my best shot, but… this just isn’t the life for me
.
A gaggle of tourists on the street behind her hooted with laughter over some shared joke, and Jordan cringed. The sound of the crowds grated on her nerves now, where once their noise filled her with optimism and drive. With another despondent sigh, she beeped her key card at the marina’s chain-link gate and made her way down the ramp toward her boat.
The thick, sun-bleached planks of the pier reflected the mid-day warmth like a mirror, so much that Jordan felt the sun even though her ball cap was pulled down snugly over her eyes. The
Coriolis
shone like a white star, rocking gently in its moorings, sending up the soothing music of the docks: the slap-slap of waves below the pier, the tinkling of stays against aluminum masts.
Jordan laid a hand on her boat’s snubby little bowsprit and patted it affectionately. “Hey, old girl.”
To her surprise, the boat talked back in a comically high, squeaky voice. “Hey, sailor-girl! Let me take you for a ride!”
A moment later the forward hatch squealed on its hinges and Storm popped up like a gopher emerging from its hole. He grinned at her and made his ears wiggle without using his hands—a talent Jordan had always envied, for no reason she could name—and for just a moment, all her worries fell away. She laughed at her cousin and hurried over to the ladder, then climbed onto the schooner’s deck.
Storm Caines pulled himself up out of the hatch, then reached back inside. Somebody below—Emily, Jordan assumed—handed him a bucket full of sanding and polishing tools, which he set beside the hatch before throwing his arms around Jordan in greeting.
Jordan hugged him back with a fierce, grateful grip. Storm was more than just her cousin—though by Jordan’s accounting, that was important enough. There was nothing in the world more important to her than her large, loving family. Not even sailing took precedence. But she and Storm had always been especially close. They were the same age, for one thing—their birth dates were just a few days apart, and growing up, they had always held joint birthday parties, sharing the special day—and the doting of their families—without any qualms. They’d learned how to sail together, too, under the instruction of their aunt Susan. Some of Jordan’s best memories were of those early days when sailing was still brand-new to her, learning to work the lines on Aunt Susan’s zippy little Dash with Storm by her side. As much as Jordan loved her three brothers—especially her twin, Carter—the bond she had with Storm was just as great.
Storm pulled back from her embrace, searching her face. The harbor breeze had been at his dark brown hair, which was never very tidy to begin with, and his rumpled appearance and tall frame, combined with his quizzical expression, made him look like a heron stalking the tideline for some tidbit to stab.
“What’s the matter?” Storm asked.
“Nothing.”
“Oh, don’t give me that ‘nothing’ crap. Something’s on your mind. I can tell.”
Emily’s thin, tanned arms emerged from the forward hatch and she hauled herself up to the deck. Her usual bright greeting of “Hi—i!” cut off more abruptly than it usually did. She, too, fixed Jordan with a questing look.
“What?” Jordan folded her arms across her chest.
“What’s the matter?”
“Not you, too, Emily.”
“We’ve been best friends since
fourth grade
,” Emily said with meaningful emphasis. “You can’t hide anything from me.”
Jordan glanced down at the work bucket and attempted to change the subject. “What were you guys doing?”
Storm shrugged. “Just shining up the brightwork. There’s always something that needs fixing on a wooden boat.”
“Yeah,” Emily said, shading her eyes with one hand as she gazed through the forest of the marina’s masts toward the town. “Based on the size of that crowd that just got off the ferry, we’re going to have a big, fat tour season this year.”
“Cha-ching,” Storm added.
“We’d better have the old girl looking her best before we take on the summer’s first charter, don’t you think?”
Emily’s eagerness to take the
Coriolis
out cut at Jordan’s heart, as did the little anticipatory jig Storm danced beside the forward mast. Jordan tried a smile, but she felt it slip from her face, dripping down into a grimace of anxiety like an ice cream cone melting in the sun.
Storm stopped his dancing. “Okay, spill it. What’s eating at you, Captain?”
Captain
. Since that first sailing lesson with her aunt, it had been Jordan’s dream to be called “Captain” someday. She’d grown up with just one ambition, one hope for her future. She wanted to make her living with sheets and rope, sailing through the stunning beauty of the San Juan Islands. And the best way to earn a living with a sailboat was to skipper charter tours—to rent out your boat, your crew, and your own expertise to wealthy clients. To make their high-dollar dreams come true, providing the magical experience they were after: an unparalleled island experience, exploring the private coves and soaring headlands of the most beautiful region on Earth.
Every birthday, every Christmas, Jordan had asked her family for just one thing: a few dollars to contribute to her boat fund. She guarded that money with the kind of discipline kids seldom had. But her longing for that dream was far stronger than any superficial desire for new clothes, techy gadgets, or exciting vacations.
The day she turned sixteen, she begged her aunt Susan and uncle Ted for a job at Steele Marina, and she quickly proved her worth, washing rich clients’ yachts, then working her way up to the radio, where she managed marina reservations and directed sail-in clients to transient slips. Sometimes in the summer when slips booked up fast the radio was the hot seat, and when she turned them down for moorage, Jordan got her ear chewed by more angry yacht-clubbers than she cared to count. But she never lost her cool. She bore the stresses of the busy marina with a level-headed, almost stern control, and by the time she was eighteen she was working at Steele Marina full-time
and
managing a staff of twelve during the summer rush.
She saved every cent she earned in her teenage years. She knew her family had been impressed by her discipline and singular focus, but she never expected them to show it in such an astonishing way. When she turned nineteen, her parents offered her a choice: they would help her go to college on the mainland if that was what she wanted—or they would help her get the sailboat of her dreams.
Or course Jordan chose the boat.
She found the
Coriolis
online, on some obscure boat-trading web site. The eighty-five-foot oyster schooner was a floating pile of junk, plagued by leaks, flaking paint, and a patch of dry rot on its deck that would have scared away a savvier buyer. But it was love at first sight. Jordan knew the
Coriolis
was the boat she would build her dreams on. Her aunt Susan accompanied her to the mainland town of Anacortes to inspect the schooner, and to Jordan’s relief, Susan pronounced it just sound enough to sail back home to Griffin Bay.
All that year the
Coriolis
sat in dry storage on her aunt’s property, and every day when her work at the marina was done, Jordan put in more hours to rehabilitate her boat. Her uncle Ted taught her how to tinker with its diesel engine, and her cousins and siblings often joined her in replacing its worn decking and repairing the questionable spots in its hull. By the following summer, the
Coriolis
looked as sharp and sound as any boat on the water, but its real test would come when Jordan splashed it for its resurrection voyage.
As she watched her boat slide gracefully from its huge trailer into the harbor, Jordan thought her heart would burst with pride. Nothing had ever made her feel so accomplished as the sight of the
Coriolis
standing straight and true in the water, where it was meant to be. And when she took her place at the helm and sailed her schooner out into the open water… she had been so sure of her future in that moment, absolutely certain nothing could ever make her give up the dream.
It hadn’t taken much arm-twisting to convince Storm and Emily to crew the beautiful schooner. Both of them were crazy about sailing, and there was no one Jordan would rather work with than her cousin and her best friend. She’d formed Sea Wolf Charters—her very own company!—when she was just twenty-one years old, finally taking her place as the captain of her own charter vessel.
Business that first year had been rocky. The
Coriolis
was a breathtaking ship, and attracted plenty of interest. But Jordan’s clientele were often reluctant to work with such a young skipper and crew. Her gender as another strike against her in many clients’ eyes; she couldn’t count all the times she had to politely fend off clients’ attempts to sail the boat on their own. Most of them were unconvinced that a woman as young as Jordan could handle a boat as large and seemingly complicated as the
Coriolis
.