Free The Mariner's Gift by Kaylie Newell Page B

Facebook about giving her a tour for the article she was working on. She thought he was married. Most likely still drop-dead gorgeous, but married. When he’d told her otherwise, that’s when she’d broken out the adorable, but totally non-functional scarf and jacket.
    Zola shivered. She’d reverted back to high school in the last forty-eight hours. She’d actually woken up this morning surprised not to find any pimples. How could he still manage to affect her this way after all these years?
    The boat shifted again as it moved farther into the bay. Seagulls dipped on the wind and squawked to each other like hyperactive kids. The air smelled salty and just a little bit like fish. Despite Zola’s rolling tummy, she embraced it. It smelled familiar. Like home.
    Oliver leaned forward, elbows on his knees. He cocked his head to the side and studied her in that way he had. Like she was the only female on the planet. No wonder so many girls had been in love with him back then.
    “I’m glad you found me, Zola. It’s good to see you.”
    “It’s good to see you too.”
    “You’ve changed.”
    Had she? She still felt like the same insecure bookworm she’d always been. Just without the glasses.
    He nodded, not waiting for a response. “You look different.”
    “It’s the hair,” she said, moving it away from her forehead for the one hundredth time that hour. “It’s shorter.”
    “It’s not the hair.”
    She smiled, feeling her cheeks heat even with the chilly breeze blowing against them. “Oh?” Was that a compliment?
    He nodded slowly.
    The boat’s engines roared as they pushed into the choppy water. The other tour boats on the wharf were much bigger. This one was small in comparison and was one of only two in the fleet. Still, Zola marveled at Oliver’s success. He’d really done something with his life. She wondered if he might feel the same about her. She was proud of her job as a staff writer for the Los Angeles Times . Very proud. But sometimes she felt like something was missing.
    Spray pelted her in the face. There goes the makeup!
    “So.” Oliver put on a pair of dark aviator sunglasses as the sun peeked briefly from the steely clouds to reflect on the water. “A writer, huh? That part’s not much different.”
    “It’s all I ever wanted to do.” She’d been Oliver’s English tutor senior year, and her writing aspirations had never been a secret. Even though they’d been polar opposites at seventeen, they’d become friends. She’d lusted after him privately, and he’d treated her like the little sister he never had.
    “Pretty impressive, Zola. The LA Times ?”
    “I don’t like to brag.”
    “A stuck-up journalist,” he said dryly. “And now I’ve got the job of hauling your butt across the bay and back.”
    “Yes, you do. I just hope I don’t throw up on your deck.”
    “It’s okay. There’s a mop and bucket in the back. Knock yourself out.”
    She grinned, despite the very real possibility of tossing her cookies on his boat.
    He looked out toward the bay, the wind ruffling his hair. For a moment, she had the almost irresistible urge to reach up and touch it.
    “Why Alcatraz?” he asked, turning back to catch her staring.
    “Uh…” It took a second before she realized he’d asked a question. And another second to think of the answer. Cripes. “This is the fiftieth anniversary of it closing. I tracked down a man who was a guard there in 1961, and talked to him over the course of a few weeks. Most of the time when you think of Alcatraz, you think of bad people, of course. But you’d be surprised at some of the stories of redemption that came out of there. I pitched it to my editor as a Christmas article and she liked it.” Zola shrugged. “So here I am.”
    She couldn’t see his eyes through the sunglasses, but could tell he was watching her closely.
    She was suddenly aware of how she must look. Soggy hair, runny mascara, and all. “What?”
    “Nothing. I’m not