Chapter One

“Do you think mermen have dicks?”

It’s meant to be a playful question. Something to lighten the mood. Instead, it’s met with a long, tense silence. Tough crowd.

I chew on my bottom lip, letting my gaze stray upward. The overhead light above the table sways, matching the movement of the rough waters outside. Two of the bulbs have burnt out, casting an almost eerie shadow across the galley walls.

Dad promised to replace the bulbs last week. It seems he forgot. Again.

The steady hum of the boat’s engine vibrates through the floorboards beneath my boots, a sound so familiar, it barely registers anymore.

I shift in my seat and adjust my playing cards, reorganizing my hand. I have two queens, a nine, and an ace. Not great, but not the worst.

“I mean,” I continue, “if mermen were real, what type of heat do you think they’d be packing?”

The hull shifts beneath us, the ocean outside dark and angry. When a wave slams against the side of the boat, it sends a loud thud through the metal frame.

I lay down my ace before meeting the gaze of Dad’s newest hire.

Kyros.

He’s handsome, with thick, dark hair, olive skin, and toned arms that would make most women swoon. We make eye contact, and I mentally steady myself. His eyes are hazel, but I swear there are flecks of crimson within them. They’re unique. Beautiful.

Kyros stares back at me, his expression blank.

It’s a shame he’s so damned sour.

I’ve seen him smile only once since joining the crew this morning. We were boating over a sea of flying fish, and Kyros leaned over the railing just as a silver-winged fish burst from the water. It startled Tipper, but not Kyros.

His smile was breathtaking.

I suspect he even laughed, but I couldn’t hear over the wind.

I was excited when Dad introduced Kyros. We need a fourth on the crew. Have needed one for months. It’s a nice bonus that Kyros is attractive, but my secret hope of sneaky, heated sexual encounters is quickly dying.

Kyros is as boring as he is beautiful.

He has the personality of a damp sponge.

My stomach dips as the boat rocks sideways, and I instinctively steady my feet against the ground. The boat groans around us, metal creaking in a way that must seem frightening to most. There are storms in the forecast, and I’m expecting the water to be rough for the next few days.

Somewhere above us, a loose chain knocks against a crabber box.

I grab the table to remain upright, then shove a loose piece of my hair out of my face. The long, black strands are always getting in the way, thick and stubborn no matter what I do with them.

Kyros doesn’t so much as sway as the boat rocks. Not even a shift of his shoulders or a tightening of his stance. Nothing.

It’s strange. Even seasoned crabbers adjust their footing when the ocean gets rough. The deck moves like a living thing during storms, but Kyros just sits there, drumming his fingers against the table without a care in the world.

I clear my throat. “Mermen probably don’t have dicks.” Kyros’s fingers pause against the table for half a second. I continue. “I bet they spurt their seed into the water like fish.”

Kyros works his jaw from side to side, remaining silent. He doesn’t offer a single word, or even a pitiful chuckle. He blows out a breath and shifts his attention to his cards.

I wait, tapping my booted toes against the ground as he plucks one out of his hand and places it over my ace. A jack, but he has trump. Damn.

He takes the hand, effortlessly dragging the cards to his rapidly growing discard pile. I’m pretty good at this game, better when I’m not playing against an Abercrombie model. Kyros is distracting.

His lips purse as he looks over his remaining cards, then he tosses in a throwaway.

His hands are unfairly attractive. Long fingers. Trimmed nails. A small scar across one knuckle. They’re the kind of hands that can pull a hundred-pound crab trap up over the side of a boat with ease.

Or the kind that could pin someone to a wall.

I shake my head. I’m not going to let my thoughts go there.

I look away from Kyros, letting my gaze sweep the galley. We’re a family-owned business, and Dad’s boat reflects that. It’s comfortable. Cozy.

To me, at least.

To others, it’s thirty-eight feet of salt-stained steel and creaking deck boards.

The galley has always been my favorite room. The narrow table Kyros and I sit at is bolted to the floor, and beside us are cabinets full of mismatched mugs and heavily dented cookware. They’ve survived too many storms to count.

A coffee pot sits on the counter beside the sink, still warm from Dad’s last refill.

“So…” I’m desperate to crack this man. “Kyros is an interesting name. Where’s it from?”

Kyros looks up, meeting my gaze again, and I find myself holding my breath. He must get this reaction from many women. Hopefully, he doesn’t think much of it.

“My mother,” he finally says. His voice is deep. Rough, like gravel dragged over concrete. It sends a shiver down my spine.

I wait for him to say more, maybe to elaborate on his mother’s decision, but he doesn’t. He returns to his silent brooding.

I’m over this. Over him.

I toss down my nine.

Kyros takes the hand.

Why did he even agree to play? He clearly doesn’t care to get to know me, and I’d go as far as to say it feels as if he’s holding some personal grudge against me. I don’t understand why. I’m kind and dependable, and I’m a damn hard worker.

Maybe he’s one of those men who hate having a woman on the boat. He wouldn’t be the first.

Either way, his attitude is off-putting, and it’s going to cost him his job.

I take the next hand, adding the cards to my small discard pile.

Crabbing is tough work. We spend long, freezing hours on the water, hauling up traps that weigh as much as a small child. It’s not glamorous, and most of the time, it isn’t terribly fun. Your fingers split open, your back aches, and your clothes smell like salt and bait no matter how often you wash them.

Dad, Tipper, and I make the most of our off-hours time. We like to have fun and joke around. There’s simply not enough space for bad blood. Besides, if Kyros is struggling with my personality, he must really hate Tipper.

Tipper’s mouth is positively foul, and he’s proud of it. I’ve spent my life surrounded by crude men and have heard every creative curse word under the sun, but Tipper still manages to shock me. It’s an impressive feat.

“Are you usually this…quiet?” I ask.

“Yes.”

Kyros throws down his last card. I do the same. He takes it, but it doesn’t matter. He won this game several hands ago.

He pushes away from the table, his chair creaking. “I’m turning in.” He meets my gaze, his expression unreadable. “Try not to spend all night thinking about mermen.”

Oh? I cock my head to the side, the corners of my lips twitching upward. Is that a tiny bit of personality coming through?

The boat lurches hard. I grab the table.

Kyros glances toward the porthole, his eyebrows pulling together. It’s the only reaction he gives to the growing storm, which is surprising. Newbies usually panic, at least a little.

When he stands, the ceiling light hits his eyes. For a second, the red in them looks almost…bright. He blinks, and it’s gone. Freaky.

He doesn’t offer to help clean up the cards as he turns from the table.

Maybe he’s just tired. It’s been a long day, I’ll give him that, but if he doesn’t pull the stick out of his ass tomorrow, I’ll talk to Dad.

Kyros exits the room just as Tipper enters.

At almost six-foot-four, Tipper has to practically fold himself in half to fit under the short doorway. He scratches at his beard as he straightens back up, his baby blues meeting mine.

“Sadie!” He grins. “I didn’t think you were coming on this run. Frank said you were taking the weekend off.”

Dad was hoping I’d take the weekend off, but I see no reason to. I have nothing better to do than sit around my house watching TV. I might as well work.

I shove the playing cards into their box, then tilt my chin toward the door Kyros just exited. Dad put Tipper in charge of training.

“Well?” I ask. “How’d it go?”

Tipper shoots me an annoyed look. It tells me everything I need to know.

“Where did Frank find him?” he asks.

I shrug. “A friend of a friend. I’m not entirely sure.”

“He’s… Yeah.”

I snort, knowing exactly what he means.

Tipper lowers himself into the newly vacated seat, nervously rubbing the back of his neck as another wave rocks the boat. The movement doesn’t bother me, but poor Tipper is turning a light shade of green. I’m getting out of here before he blows.

“I’m heading to bed.” I toss the deck of cards on the counter as I pass by. “See you in the morning.”

The hallway separating the galley from my small bedroom is covered in old, faded framed photos. All of them are of mermaids. Well, most of them are of mermaids. There are a select few of my baby photos mixed within.

The rest are mermaids.

There are illustrations, anatomical diagrams, and even a few hand drawings. Dad has been collecting them for years. He makes no attempts to hide his mermaid fascination, despite all the teasing he’s received over the years.

He’s a walking stereotype. The classic fisherman obsessed with the mythical mermaid.

Some of the drawings are beautiful—delicate sketches of women with long, translucent hair drifting through the water. Others…not so much. Anatomical diagrams of tails and bones. The types of drawings you’d expect to see in a biology textbook.

My lips curl as I eye the crude, hand-drawn map in the center of the wall. When I was seven, Dad sat me down with this map and told me how mermaids migrate through the Pacific currents. He likened their movements to whales.

I believed him for a full three years. I would scan the water every time we went out, convinced I might catch a glimpse of a shimmering tail slipping beneath the waves.

I was heartbroken to learn that Dad is just a nerd with too much free time and a vivid imagination.

One of the frames hangs slightly crooked, and I instinctively straighten it.

There’s movement behind me in the glass reflection. I turn, peering out the small porthole window. Kyros is standing alone on the deck, his hands clasped behind his back as he watches the churning water below. He remains steady as we experience another swell, unmoving even as I sidestep and plant a hand against the wall.

The wind whips through his dark hair, tugging the strands around his face.

Something is off about this guy.

Everybody knows to stay inside when the water gets choppy. One slip, one wrong move, means death. Kyros isn’t nearly as afraid as he should be. Maybe he’s suicidal.