Free Mistletoe Not Required by Anne Oliver Page B

forced himself to relax and watched the action around him, cleavage, perfume, feminine voices. He loved women—loved their curves and silky skin, their scents and tastes. The way they insinuated themselves against him and made him feel like a king for however long it lasted—one night, a week. A month at most.
    Five-minute warning shot. Twelve-knot breeze on the harbour. A gusty change expected later this evening.
    The crew were in their positions. From his spot he got a glimpse of Olivia, her hair tucked beneath her cap, looking gloriously intense in her skimpy pink T-shirt that rode up at the back, giving him a tantalising view of flesh as she moved lightly across the deck. Her toned and tanned legs flashed in the sun and her feet were bare. He decided there was nothing sexier than a bare-footed skipper.
    She’d offered him prescription-strength seasickness medication, which he’d waved away. He didn’t tell her he’d purchased an over-the-counter generic brand from a nearby pharmacy last night. Apart from that time, he’d hardly laid eyes on her since that kiss in the galley late yesterday afternoon.
    An urgent commotion broke out amongst the crew, catching his attention. He heard the words ‘main power’ and ‘power winch’ and a few sailor-worthy curses.
    He half rose but he caught sight of Breanna sprinting across the deck already shaking her head as if she expected him to offer his expertise. ‘Olivia knows what she’s doing.’
    Of course she did. Obviously a boat mechanic on top of everything else. Since he didn’t have a clue about boat mechanics and he’d only be in the way in addition to showcasing his lack of expertise, he leaned back again and watched the crew work feverishly to fix whatever the problem was.
    And it would be fixed, he had no doubt. Wonder Woman was in charge. Interesting. He’d never been remotely involved with a take-charge woman.
    The girls returned to their positions, problem obviously sorted. Seconds later the starter pistol cracked the air and they were off, tacking against the north-easterly wind. As they rounded the marker outside Sydney Heads, the huge and distinctive pink spinnaker sail unfurled, accelerating them to a fast rate of knots in a southerly direction down the coast.
    Smooth sailing on a sparkling blue sea, fresh sea air. Roast quail and veg for dinner tonight. A single male in a boatful of gorgeous girls.
    They settled in, the rhythmic motion almost hypnotic, and his mind wandered. He envied Olivia her focus and drive and dedication. She had her plan, she’d charted a path for her life and nothing was going to divert her from it.
    Whereas he was drifting. Career-wise he’d been restless and unsettled for a while. He needed a change of direction, something to bring back the zing in life, to motivate him. Even if it had nothing to do with career, this sailing-cum-fundraising opportunity was a new experience. He gazed at the tilting horizon. Out here on the endless Pacific Ocean he felt as if he was on the brink of something new, different, exciting.
    He’d not felt so alive in a long time.
    * * *
    He wished he were dead.
    On deck and huddled into a spray jacket over his hoodie, Jett stared listlessly at the night’s stormy horizon lifting and sinking, up, down... Death was preferable to this washing machine on spin cycle. He swallowed several times as bile rose up his throat. Again. His quail dinner and worse—his pride—had disappeared overboard in spectacular fashion even before the change in weather had really shaken things up. He’d woken for his Wild watch and emerged from the sticky fume-filled cabin and into the fresh sea air and bam .
    The watch was nearly over. Thirty more minutes. Then all he wanted was to be left alone to die in peace. A familiar figure emerged from below decks and began making her way towards him in the dimness. The sexy skipper. A hot tide of humiliation washed through him and he averted his eyes to the clouds scudding across