Making Waves by Tawna Fenske Page A

piece of monkfish and looked up at Alex.
    He was staring at her oddly and Juli tried to remember if she’d said something provocative or offensive this time. She couldn’t think of anything, but then she often didn’t catch her own faux pas until it was too late.
    She turned back toward the kitchen. “Cookie,” she called to him. “Who taught you to make food like this?”
    “Serge Lightfoot.”
    “Serge Lightfoot, the famous TV chef?”
    “He’s my older brother.”
    “No kidding?”
    “Nope. He’s always been an inspiration to me.”
    “I thought Steve Largent was an inspiration to you,” Jake called over his shoulder.
    At the sound of his voice, Phyllis smiled prettily and began to load up another plate of food for him. She stood and carried it over to him, her hips swaying just a little as she moved. Jake smiled appreciatively—a look that wasn’t lost on Juli, even if the rest of the conversation was.
    “Who is Steve Largent?” Juli asked.
    “Steve Largent?” Jake snorted. “The best wide receiver to ever play the game.”
    “What game?”
    “Football. The great American sport?”
    Juli rolled her eyes. “Ugh. Football.”
    “Ugh? Football? Are you kidding me?” Alex stared at her. “You’re from the west coast and you don’t have a Seahawks tattoo?”
    “What?”
    “The Seattle Seahawks. Best football team in the history of the sport. Steve Largent? Jim Zorn? Walter Jones? Lofa Tatupu? Any of these famous Seahawk names ringing a bell?”
    “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
    “That’s my team,” Cody said, drizzling some sort of sauce on another platter.
    “Your team?” Juli said, paying more attention to the food than the conversation. “That’s nice.”
    “No, he means it,” Alex said. “Not in a ‘those are my boys’ armchair-quarterback kind of way. Cody used to play for the Seahawks. I know that’s not a big deal to someone who doesn’t know a football from a salami, but trust me, it’s huge. Cody here— Cookie —is one of the best tight ends to ever play the game.”
    Juli eyed Cody with renewed interest. “You really are a novelty then, Cookie. A football playing, gourmet cooking, cartographer pirate.”
    “What?”
    Alex dropped his fork. Phyllis choked on her wine. Jake’s shoulders went rigid. Even Cody looked uncomfortable.
    “What? What did I say?” Juli asked, looking from one face to the other for a clue. “What?”
    “Nothing,” Alex said, staring at her. “Have another piece of ankimo monkfish foie gras with dijon miso sauce and tobiko.”
    Juli sighed, forking up another generous portion. “You guys are the weirdest cartographers I’ve ever stowed away with.”
    ***
    In the middle of the night, Juli tiptoed out of her stateroom and peered into the pilothouse. Alex was tilted back a little in the chair, looking more natural at the helm of a boat than he did anywhere else she’d seen him. Juli watched him, feeling a shiver of voyeuristic excitement.
    His shoulders were beautifully muscled beneath the rumpled linen shirt. The dark hair looked windblown, not in that phony movie star fashion, but genuinely blown by the wind. He glanced at something in his lap, then punched some numbers on a gadget beside him. Beautiful hands , Juli thought, then shivered at the memory of those hands all over her body.
    Obviously she’d been celibate a little too long. Be normal , she told herself, wishing it was that easy.
    She forced herself to concentrate, watching Alex from behind. Something odd was going on. There had been more than a few awkward moments during dinner, strange bits of conversation that left little doubt in Juli’s mind that these guys were not cartographers. Not even close.
    Now that she wasn’t puking her guts out, she was almost enjoying herself out on the water. Okay, there was the perpetual fear of sinking to a watery grave, but really, was that much worse than working in a marketing office? Certainly the coffee was better