Hook, Line, and Sinker: A Novel (Bellinger Sisters Book 2)
Hook, Line, and Sinker: Chapter 13

Hannah opened her eyes on Monday morning and absorbed the sight of Fox across the pillow they shared, morning light beginning to peek through the blinds behind him, outlining his bedhead in burnished gold. With his mouth slightly parted, beard growth shadowing his jaw and upper lip, he was startlingly gorgeous. Seriously? At six A.M., he could be shooting an advertising campaign for Emporio Armani.

After last night, however . . . she couldn’t look at him without seeing past the packaging to the uncut gem beneath. Smooth and glorious on the outside. But on the inside, his light hit a jagged peak and refracted in a thousand different directions.

A dull ache spread down the middle of her chest, deepening so quickly that she had to press a palm to the spot, rubbing to alleviate the pressure. The pain he’d revealed last night had walked across the bed and burrowed into her breast, refusing to vacate—and she didn’t want it to leave. She didn’t want him to carry it alone. He’d clearly been doing that a long time, letting the damage fester.

What did it mean for Hannah to help him shoulder the burden of his past? Was she being a good friend—and a friend only? Or did her determination to stand with Fox come from somewhere else entirely?

Somewhere . . . romantic?

Because that wouldn’t be a good idea.

That wouldn’t be a good idea at all.

After last night, she would never consider him a player again. By selling himself short and doubling down on his irreverent image, he was playing himself more than anything. But he was still Fox Thornton, confirmed bachelor and connoisseur of women. He didn’t want a relationship, period. He’d told her that.

So no matter what sticky, reckless feelings might be bubbling to the surface, the supportive buddy position was the only one available to her, wasn’t it?

Hannah’s thoughts scattered like the head of a dandelion when Fox’s blue eyes opened, spearing her from the other side of the pillow. They were warm, a little relieved. And then he blinked and up went his guard.

“Hey,” he said slowly, studying her closely. “You slept here all night.”

Words crammed into her chest. Phrases she’d learned from her therapists over the years. Things she wanted to say to Fox that would explain why he felt so terrible over what happened in college. Suggestions for adjusting his outlook, and assurances that none of it was his fault.

For once, all the fancy supportive language in the world felt inadequate, though. Somehow, over the course of the night, she’d entered the fray with Fox without making a conscious decision. She was in it, this battle for his soul. Now that she was here, however, it was beginning to seem unlikely that she could remain too long without . . . falling for him.

God. She was. Falling fast.

“Yeah,” she murmured finally, sitting up and brushing some static-charged strands of hair out of her face. “Sorry, I must have really passed out.”

He pushed up onto an elbow. “Wasn’t looking for a sorry. It’s fine.”

Hannah nodded. She looked over at him and . . . oh boy, there it was. An overwhelming urge to touch him. To push him down onto the mattress, climb on top, and tell him in between kisses that he was way more than a hall pass. Way more than he gave himself credit for. But that went beyond supportive friend. Those were the actions of a supportive girlfriend—and she couldn’t be that for him.

“I have to be at work early,” Hannah managed.

“Right.” He pushed a hand through his hair, visibly at a loss. “Huh.”

“What?”

His big shoulder shrugged, the laughter not quite reaching his eyes. “It feels like I’m sending you off with nothing.”

The chasm that had formed down the center of her heart last night widened, and she barely managed to swallow a sound of distress. And then the anger flooded in. How dare his teachers and full-grown adults sexualize him at such a young age? How could his father bring women over while his eighteen-year-old son was visiting? Who were those monsters he’d befriended in college? They probably worked for the IRS now. And yes, a fair bit of rage was directed squarely at herself, because she’d definitely called him a pretty-boy sidekick the first time they’d met. Peacock after that. She wanted to bang her head against the wall now for being like everyone else.

Before Hannah could stop herself, she’d turned and walked on her knees across the bed, wrapping her arms around Fox’s neck, hugging him in a manner that was freakishly tight, but she couldn’t seem to make herself stop. Especially when his arms crept up and surrounded her, pulling Hannah to his chest, his face dropping into the slope of her neck.

“You sang for me last night,” she said. “You brought me as close as I’ll ever get to Henry. That wasn’t nothing.”

“Hannah . . .”

“And after what you told me last night, I could sit here for hours and rant about toxic masculinity and undervaluing yourself, but I’m not going to do that. I’m just going to tell you that . . . I’ll be back tonight and that you’re really important to me.”

His swallow was audible. “We sail for five nights on Wednesday. Two days from now. Kind of a longer trip than usual. I just . . . If you were curious or wanted to know when I’d be gone.”

“Of course I want to know.” She pressed her lips together. “That means you’ll come home the day we wrap on Glory Daze.”

They looked at each other hard, neither of them seeming to know what to do with that information. Timelines, schedules, leaving, coming back. How it related to them as two people who’d just slept in the same bed.

So she kissed his coarse cheek and gave him a final squeeze, trying not to notice the way his hips shifted, his mouth breathing hard against her neck. “Just this, Hannah?” His long fingers slid up into her hair to cradle the back of her head, subtly tilting it to the left and brushing his lips along her pulse. “Just hugging for us?”

With one word of encouragement, Hannah knew she would be flat on her back and would love every second. But maybe . . . maybe her mission here wasn’t to be the supportive friend, but to prove to Fox that he could be one. That his presence and personality were enough without any of the physical trappings. “Just like this.”

Was she asking a lot of Fox to try seeing himself in a new light? Wasn’t she in the process of doing that herself—and not replaceing it very easy? Maybe if she wanted this man to believe he could captain a ship and rely on his wit and humor and spirit alone, then she had to believe in herself first. She couldn’t ask him to reach for a higher summit if she wasn’t willing to reach herself.

The opening notes of “I Say a Little Prayer” by Aretha Franklin tumbled through Hannah’s head, and her eyes flew open, a grateful smile curving her lips. Hallelujah. The songs were back. Sure, the lyrics were a little alarming, considering she was lying in Fox’s bed, but maybe the whole song didn’t have to pertain to their relationship. Just some of it? Just the prayer parts, maybe?

Hannah swallowed. Why had the songs returned now? Had listening to Fox sing Henry’s shanties last night shaken them loose? The beckoning of a new direction for her career? Or did the return of her music-minded thinking mean something else?

Reluctant to examine the possibilities too closely, Hannah allowed herself a long inhale of Fox’s scent, then unwound her arms from his neck, refusing to acknowledge the low pulse between her legs or the flapping in her chest. Not today. Probably not ever.

She climbed off the bed, her back warmed by his attention, left the room, and went into the bathroom. Once she’d showered, dressed, and blown out her hair, she stopped in the living room, hesitating a moment before picking up the folder full of original sea shanties and holding them to her chest. With Fox nowhere in sight, she left the apartment, returning once for an umbrella due to the clouds moving in overhead. But instead of heading down to today’s shooting site, she let the hook in her gut pull her toward the record store, instead.

* * *

Hannah sighed when Disc N Dat came into view, nondescript and lacking in any signage, the blue Christmas lights adorning the window the only indication that it was open for business.

Last summer, she’d taken a part-time job at the record store. Mainly to add enough money to their budget that Piper wouldn’t have to cook anymore and potentially burn the building down. But she’d also needed a way to occupy herself so Piper wouldn’t feel terrible about spending more time with Brendan. Throw in the fact that Hannah lived for records, and it had been the perfect short-term gig.

A sense of familiarity settled over Hannah when her hand curled around the bronze handle and pulled, the smell of incense and coffee wafting out and beckoning her into the musty haven. She was relieved, especially today, to see that nothing had changed. Disc N Dat was still reliably dated and welcoming, the same posters that had been there over the summer still pinned to the wall, row after row of Christmas lights twinkling on the ceiling, Lana Del Rey rasping quietly from the recessed speaker.

The owner, Shauna, walked out from the tiny back room, face buried in a coffee mug, appearing almost startled to have a customer. “Hannah!” She brightened, setting her cup down on a console table that displayed her beaded jewelry and dream catchers. “I was wondering when you’d finally stop by.”

“Sorry it took me so long.” They embraced in the center of the aisle—the kind of hug one gives the person who talked them through their first typhoon. “I really don’t have any excuse.” Hannah turned in a circle, absorbing her surroundings. “I think I was worried if I came back in here, I would quit my job on the spot and beg to get this one back.”

“Well, I’ll save you the trouble. We’re not hiring, seeing as how we’ve only had two customers since the last time you were here.”

Hannah blew out a laugh. “I hope they were quality, at least?”

“Those who manage to replace us usually are,” Shauna said, grinning. “So what’s new with you?”

Oh, not much. Just in the process of realizing I have feelings for a man who is the definition of unavailable.

“Mmmm. Work, mostly.” She walked her fingers along the plastic record sleeves of the B section. B.B. King, the Beatles, Ben Folds, Black Sabbath. But her head came up when Lana’s voice faded out and a series of notes opened the next song—were those fiddles? Followed by the ominous pound of a drum. Then came the voice. The gravelly female call to attention that made the hair on Hannah’s arms stand up.

“Who is this?”

Shauna pointed to the speaker questioningly, and Hannah nodded. “This is the Unreliables. My cousin’s girlfriend is the lead singer.”

“They’re local?”

“Seattle.”

Now this music would be perfect for Glory Daze. Replacing the industrial sound with the dramatic pound of the drum, the rush of emotion in the singer’s voice, the folk element of the fiddles. It would bring the small-town story to life. Give the film more than just texture—this sound would give it character.

Only when Shauna came up beside Hannah did she realize she’d been staring into space. “What’s in the folder?”

“Huh?” In confusion, she looked down to replace Henry’s collection of shanties beneath her arm. She’d brought them along to show Brinley, one music lover to another, hoping it might be a way to bond with the music coordinator. “Oh. These are, um . . . sea shanties. Original ones that were written by my father when he was still alive. Most of them are just words on the page. I’d have to go digging with the locals to learn the tunes, but I’m guessing it would sound something like this.” She pointed at the ceiling. “Like the Unreliables . . .”

Hannah murmured that last part, because a light bulb had started flashing in her brain. She looked down at the folder, flipping it open and leafing through page after page of lyrics with no music. But what if . . . music could be added? The lyrics were deep and heartfelt and poetic. Compelling. They’d made Henry feel real to Hannah. What if she could take it one step further and bring his music to life?

Was that a crazy idea?

“Weird question for you,” she said to Shauna. “How well do you know the Unreliables? Would they be willing to”—what did she even call this?—“collaborate? I have these songs from my father, and I’d love to add music like theirs, add a voice—and they would be perfect. I only have the words, obviously, so they’d have a lot of creative input . . .”

Oh boy.

Now that one light bulb had gone off, her whole head looked like Hollywood Boulevard at night. She’d gone days without inspiration, and now it was pouring in, all because of the faded blue folder in her hands.

Glory Daze took place in Westport.

Westport was Henry Cross.

How many times had she been told that?

Currently, the music soundtrack was made up of songs that already existed and that never felt right to Hannah. Music for another time and place that dulled the magic of this location. It dulled the impact of Westport as the backdrop. But what if the score was made up of songs written by the man who defined this place?

“You want to record them? Intriguing,” Shauna said, pursing her lips. “So you’d want them to add their own spin to the shanties. Lay down some tracks . . .”

“Yes. I mean, if they’re in Seattle, I could meet with them myself. Compensate them.” If there was ever a time to give in and use the family money available to her, this was it. And wow. All of this felt like leading-lady moves. But they felt good, so she took them one step further. “I’d like to have some input as well.”

Shauna nodded, seeming kind of impressed. “Let me reach out to my cousin to see if they’re available. But don’t count on them. It could be a dead end. They’re not called the Unreliables for nothing.”

“Right,” Hannah said wryly, closing the folder and running her hand over the front cover, getting more and more caught up in the idea, something telling her this was it. This was big. She’d only had the idea a minute ago and already ached to get started. To dive into the process she’d always watched from the wings. She could be a part of it. With her father. “Thanks.”

Shauna shuffled across the ancient floor and plopped herself down on a stool behind the counter. “Where have you been staying while you’re in town? With Brendan and Piper?”

“Not this time. Brendan’s parents are in town, so”—she swallowed, thinking about her temporary roommate’s face relaxed in sleep—“I’m staying with Fox up on the harbor.”

Shauna slapped her thigh. “Oh! Wait, I take back what I said about only having two customers. Fox has been in here a bunch, too, lately.”

Hannah did a double take. “Has he?”

“Uh-huh.” Shauna got distracted by a smudge on the front counter, scratching at it with her thumbnail. “Surprised me, too, the first time he walked in. You know, he was a senior at the high school when I was a freshman. The Fox Thornton.” She shook her head. “You don’t just expect that face to breeze in off the street. Took me a few minutes to stop babbling. But he has pretty good taste. Last thing he bought was Thin Lizzy. Live.”

Confusion settled over Hannah. “But he doesn’t even own a record player.” She took a mental tally of the sparse apartment. “Unless it’s invisible.”

“Weird,” Shauna commented.

“Yeah . . .” Deep in thought, Hannah backed toward the exit, needing to make one more stop before heading to set. She’d have to deconstruct the riddle of Fox’s record-buying habits later. “Weird. See you soon?”

“I better.”