Cassie Mint

  Shiver Me Timbers

  First published by Black Cherry Publishing 2023

  Copyright © 2023 by Cassie Mint

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Cassie Mint asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  First edition

  ISBN: 978-1-915735-40-9

  Cover art by Cormar Covers

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

  Find out more at reedsy.com

  Contents

  1. Ellie

  2. Duncan

  3. Ellie

  4. Duncan

  5. Ellie

  6. Duncan

  7. Ellie

  Teaser: Dear Diary

  About the Author

  One

  Ellie

  “One at a time, please. Form a line, folks! There’s plenty of room on board, no need to push.” Tapping my pen against the clipboard, I scan the list of names and check off people as they wobble past to the bench seats.

  The deck rocks beneath me, teetering as tonight’s crowd files onboard. They’re all wide eyed and jittery, all out-of-towners who can’t decide whether they’re thrilled or petrified at the thought of finding ghosts. Overhead, stars twinkle against a lilac sky, and the sun bleeds red as it sinks below the horizon.

  We’ve got a full boat tonight. We get full tours most nights, because Duncan and I don’t mess around. Our shipwreck tour is the best in Belladonna Bay, simple as that.

  We know all the places to go. We know the ghostly spots, the patches of sea where the temperature drops and the surface churns for no apparent reason. We know the secret route through the jagged rocks to the haunted lighthouse, and we know when to cut the motor so you can hear invisible voices wail on the wind.

  A five star average rating. That’s us. And that experience starts now, with Duncan up front giving his captain’s safety talk with that deep, gravelly voice, the wind tugging his dark hair.

  Leaning back against the starboard railing, I let my clipboard dangle for a moment and enjoy the view. I’m only human, okay? And there are so few times when I can openly stare at this man.

  And it’s no wonder we’re always fully booked. I mean, come on. Duncan Matlock is a walking work of art—by one of those maritime painters who always paints great big ships with billowing sails, and grizzled admirals. One of those.

  Because Duncan is weathered and tanned, with silver threading his temples and a sun-bleached white flare in his dark beard. There are lines at the corners of his eyes from always squinting into the sun, and his strong hands are covered in nicks and calluses. When you get close, he smells like peppermint.

  I love when we get close.

  His shoulders are broad, his chest strong beneath that blue flannel shirt as it flaps in the wind. He’s tall and sturdy, and he never says much at all—at least not to anyone but me. With everyone else, he’s a grunter.

  Duncan Matlock is a fine whiskey. That’s what I’m saying.

  Too bad he’s my business partner… and my dead dad’s best friend. I couldn’t pick a more hopeless crush if I tried.

  “Life jackets are in the boxes under your seats. There are lifeboats with plenty of room for everyone, and in the event of an emergency…”

  I tune out the safety spiel, and watch Duncan’s mouth move. Watch his chest rise and fall with every breath, so steady and confident. The wind roves all over him, ruffling his hair, tugging on his clothes, and I’m so freaking jealous that it gets to touch him like that. I’d give anything to explore that man.

  “Ready, Ellie?”

  There’s a long pause, and I jolt when I realize Duncan’s talking to me. The crowd have all turned to face me, heads swiveling as one, and a warm blush crawls over my cheeks. All around us, boats clink and bob in the marina.

  Caught ogling the captain. So embarrassing.

  “Aye, sir,” I call, hamming it up for the crowds, and they laugh and whisper together, turning back to face the front.

  Only Duncan watches me for a beat longer, one dark eyebrow raised. Then he ducks inside to start the motor, and the Ellie May rumbles to life beneath us.

  We’re off.

  And if I can keep my eyes off the captain, this tour will go just fine.

  * * *

  I don’t remember the first time I had tingly feelings around my dad’s best friend. It feels eternal, like trying to remember the first time I experienced rain. But it must have been when I was a teenager, suddenly slapped in the face by hormones and all too aware of the men around me, with their deep voices and squared wrists and in-jokes.

  I’d never noticed a person’s forearms before, and there I was: suddenly surrounded by them. Strong forearms, too, corded with muscle and dusted with dark hair, because Dad had a fishing boat, and everyone in the marina wore rolled sleeves. They made me feel all squirmy. It was a lot to take in.

  Back then, I barely knew which way was up. My own body was becoming alien, sprouting new curves and stubbly hairs in strange places, and my mood could rise and plummet without reason in the space of five minutes.

  I hated my dad and loved him in equal measure, though I couldn’t say why. God, I regret those teenage tantrums now. I’d give anything for five more minutes with my dad.

  But back then, even as my teenage moods were running rampant, I knew instinctively that Duncan Matlock was a safe harbor. Of all my dad’s friends, he’s the one I liked best.

  Sometimes, I’d turn up at the marina after school and Dad wouldn’t be back for hours yet. It was just me, surrounded by all those forearms, dizzied by the hormonal cocktail swilling in my brain. I’d wander up and down the marina, scuffing my shoes against the wooden jetty boards, listening to the boats clink and ropes creak. Counting the minutes until my dad got back from sea.

  But Duncan would call me over. He’d set me up with a folding chair on the jetty beside his boat—he had a different boat back then, though I forget what it was called—and give me a flask of hot chocolate and a blanket if it was cold, then order me to start my homework already.

  If it rained, he put me under cover in the wheelhouse, though he always stayed out on deck getting wet.

  If it was sunny, he’d set me up in the shade.

  He was my knight in flannel shirts. Is it any wonder I imprinted on that man? Is it any wonder that my crush on him went deeper than any other, boring into my very bones?

  And is it any wonder that years later, after my dad died, there was only one person I wanted to be around, and it was Duncan Matlock?

  He took me in, even though I was nineteen—an adult by then, fully responsible for myself. But Duncan rented me a room in his house, and started this tour business with me on his boat, and gave me safety. Security. Love.

  Not the kind of love I want from him, maybe, but love all the same.

  There’s a lot at risk if I push him too far. I need to remember that.

  * * *

  “There’s a pod of common dolphins on the left, folks.”

  The crowd shoot to their feet at Duncan’s words, trying to see over each other’s heads, and the closest ones rush to press against the rail. Out in the water, sleek gray bodies zip back and forth, dancing in the current churned up by the boat. The dolphins keep pace easily, rolling over to show their paler bellies, their fins breaking the surface when they come up to breathe.

  I don’t rush over to see. These customers paid good money for this tour, and I won’t go hogging a prime spot. Besides, I’ve got my own special view to contemplate as I chew on my thumbnail, staring at the back of the captain’s dark head.

  See, the problem with all this restraint is that I know Duncan likes me too. In that way, I mean. A romantic way. He’s not half as subtle as he thinks he is, with those lingering glances he gives me sometimes when we’re alone at his kitchen table, a muscle flexing in his strong jaw. Nor with the look of sheer longing he gets when he tucks my curly red hair behind my ear.

  I’ve heard the way Duncan’s breath catches when I brush past too close on the boat. I’ve watched him get all pissy when another man dares to flirt with me in the town bar.

  And I can read, for god’s sake. I see my own name splashed across the side of his boat every day, lapped by the waves: Ellie May. This man is as subtle as a rock.

  “Good crowd tonight,” Duncan says when I wedge in the wheelhouse beside him. He squints out at the horizon, one hand resting on the wheel. We’re cutting through the water, still as a mirror beneath the moon, and our tour group out there is buzzing with excitement, all whispers and gasps and tugged sleeves.

  There’s nothing ghostly to see yet. But there will be, soon enough.

  We’re gonna scare the pants off these mofos.

  “Lighthouse?” I ask. “Or the pirate caves?”

  There’s only time for one showstopper destination on each tour, so we mix it up. Keep it fresh. For our own entertainment, if nothing else—plus I like to think the ghosts appreciate the spontaneity. God knows I wouldn’t want people gawping at me every single night without a break.

  “The northern wreck, then the caves. They’ll echo well on a still night like this.” Navy blue eyes flick to me, then away. A scarred thumb drums on the steering wheel. “You alright, Ellie?”

  Um. “Yeah?”

  “Because earlier…” Duncan trails off, frowning at the controls. Yeah, earlier I made a tit out of myself in front of everyone, staring at this man like he’s the second coming. What about it? It wasn’t the first time, and it surely won’t be the last.

  I can’t help it. He draws my eye. When Duncan’s around, he’s all I see.

  And he may be okay with pretending there’s nothing between us, that we’re colleagues and friends, nothing more, but with every day that passes, I get more exhausted with all the pretense. I feel like I’m living a lie.

  So the sigh that gusts out of me is practically dredged from the seabed. Duncan glances at me, alarmed.

  And shoot, he’s so tall and broad and unavoidable in this cramped space. Every breath I draw into my lungs is tinged with peppermint. Each rustle of his clothes makes the tiny hairs on my arms stand on end.

  Those eyes on me… I can feel them, somehow. It’s a physical caress.

  The only one I’ll ever have from this man.

  “Your thingy is blinking,” I say, pointing at the controls, because I can’t stand this tension for another second longer. My throat is so tight, I can barely get the words out.

  “Oh.” Duncan turns back to his work, flipping switches and pressing buttons. The flashing stops. “Right.”

  Our elbows brush. We both hold our breath.

  The stars glitter.

  “Two minutes,” Duncan says, right as I blurt, “Well, I’d better get back out there.”

  Yeah. I stumble out of the wheelhouse, my face on fire, so grateful for the cool wind on deck.

  No point lingering in there, hoping for something that will never happen—and no point letting this sour mood get me down.

  There’s a lot to be thankful for. I’m very lucky, all in all.

  And right now, I’ve got tourists to spook.

  Two

  Duncan

  Ellie is always a sight to behold when she leads these tours. On land, she’s bright and funny and warm and sweet—a ball of sunshine wrapped in those knitted dresses she likes to wear. But on the tours, it’s on another level. On the tours… Ellie is theatrical.

  She flounces up and down the deck, telling the grisly tale of the northern shipwreck, the wind lifting her wild red hair. In her long green skirt and black top, draped with scarves and necklaces, Ellie looks like a fortune teller from a traveling fair.

  The fingerless lace gloves are a nice touch, too. What would those feel like on my bare skin?

  “Rumor has it,” Ellie says, her voice dropping low. Everyone on board leans close, staring at her with wide eyes. “Rumor has it that this ship carried two fleeing lovers, both desperate to marry. They couldn’t be together if they stayed in Belladonna Bay, so they stowed on board this ship… and met their doom.”

  Ellie’s eyes flick to me, then away. Leaning against the wheelhouse door frame, I glower at her with shameless hunger.

  These tours are the only real chance I get to stare at this young woman. If I watched her like this on land, the whole town would explode with gossip—and good thing, too.

  Lord knows something needs to keep me in line—and I’m ashamed to say that Pete’s memory only does half a job these days.

  His daughter was always beautiful. But she was always a kid in my mind, you know? All scabby knees and then teenage moods. Someone to watch over, but that’s all.

  It never really occurred to me that Ellie would one day be something more; that she’d grow into an adult woman, and the mere sight of her would take me out at the knees.

  Blowing out a long breath, I scrub a palm down my beard.

  Shouldn’t think this way. Shouldn’t let myself.

  Out beyond the boat, shards of salt-crusted shipwreck spear through the calm water. Most of the detail has gone, eaten away by sun and salt over the years, but the ship’s skeleton is stark enough. Looming above us, it casts a jagged silhouette against the stars.

  Back where no one can see, I tap my knuckles against the wheelhouse wall. The Ellie May will never meet such a fate, I swear.

  “They searched for survivors for three days and three nights,” Ellie says, the crowd glued to her every word. “Rescue boats came from all along the coastline, all volunteers with great big searchlights, scanning the water for any people left alive.”

  An adolescent boy near the railing groans and shudders. The elderly woman beside him smiles and pats his forearm with a gnarled hand.

  “And now, late at night, when the stars come out… the shipwreck remembers.” Ellie glances at me, and that’s my cue. Reaching back, I kill the engine and everything with it—including the wheelhouse lights.

  And the crowd shrieks, because—

  Darkness.

  It’s sudden. All-encompassing. There are a few yelps from the tourists, then storms of giggles, but Ellie and I wait patiently for everyone to settle back down. It’s not so bad after a minute or two—the moon is bright overhead, and there’s a silvery glow to see by. We wait in silence, rocking gently in the swell. People fidget.

  Then—

  “There!” A woman points, her cry echoing across the deck, but she needn’t yell, really. We all see it. It’s impossible to miss.

  Ghostly searchlights trail across the shipwreck, shadows skittering in their wake, even though there are no lamps here to cast those beams.

  Whispers start on the edge of hearing, then get louder and louder, until it’s like a hornet’s nest buzzing in my skull. Ellie winces, watching the light display, but I watch her.

  I always watch her. Ghosts are interesting enough, but as far as I’m concerned… there’s nothing more miraculous than Ellie.

  “There you have it,” she says when the angry whispers fade away. The tourists sit in stunned silence, their expressions awed in the light of the moon. “Now, who’s ready for some pirate caves?”

  The whoops and cheers echo across the quiet waters. Grinning, I duck back into the wheelhouse and power up the engine.

  * * *

  “Holy shit,” Ellie crows, flicking through the stack of cash tips, her fingers quick in their lacy gloves. “We made bank tonight. Thank you, pirate ghosts.”

  Our footsteps echo on the cobblestones as we walk home from the harbor, the stone damp and shining from the ocean mist. The street lamps are hazy and golden, dotted along the path home, and the bars and pubs of Belladonna Bay are still thrumming with life at this hour, music bleeding out onto the street and punctuated by loud bursts of laughter.

  We could go in somewhere. Could join the revelry. We do sometimes, when my will power feels good and strong and I’m sure I can trust myself around Ellie, even in dark corners and with booze loosening my tongue.

  Tonight is not one of those nights. When Ellie glances at our favorite pub, The Albatross, then smiles hopefully at me… I shake my head.

  “Better get back,” is all I say.

  Better get a grip is more like it.

  Belladonna Bay is all wet slate roofs and tangled alleyways; hanging wooden shop signs that creak in the damp, salty breeze, and the scent of roasted beef from the carvery.

  But Christ, why can’t I stop staring at Ellie tonight? We’re walking through town, but I barely see any of it, my boots scuffing against the cobblestones. I’m lucky I don’t trip and hit the deck.

  My eyes feel so dry, it’s like I haven’t blinked for hours. Too busy gazing at my beautiful young business partner, entranced. My fingers keep itching, desperate to touch her scarves or play with her curly hair, and there’s a sour knot of tension in my belly. This is awful.

  But you know what it was? It was that moment earlier—when Ellie got caught staring at me. When she was frozen on the boat, heedless of the crowd, looking at me with such longing.

  I swear, sometimes Ellie stares at me like she wants to eat me alive. But that’s Stockholm Syndrome for you. I took her in when she was lost and vulnerable; I made her feel safe again. Of course she’s got mixed up feelings about me, but it’s not real.

 

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