out to make a pot of coffee. Before long, the rich smell filled the cabin and she poured herself a mug and sat down at the table.
Idly, she flipped through a stack of papers slowly realizing that she was looking at a book manuscript. Beneath another pile was a book jacket. She pulled it out and found herself staring at a picture of Brendan Quinn, looking slightly dangerous, like a modern-day pirate. “Bestselling author of Mountain Madness,” she murmured. A list of quotes by other authors gave glowing reviews of Brendan’s last book about a rescue on the north face of Mount Everest.
She went back to the manuscript and slid it in front of her. This book wasn’t about mountain climbing. It was about the men and women she’d come to know while working at the Longliner. The commercial fishermen who fished the North Atlantic and the families who waited for them to come back from the sea.
Amy was drawn immediately into the story, Brendan’s prose illuminating the reasons why men fished, why they risked their lives every day in a dangerous job to make a living that was backbreaking and often heartbreaking. Characters came to life and she recognized many of the qualities that her customers at the tavern possessed. Though the fishermen were a hard-living bunch, Brendan gave them all a quiet dignity as he explained how their way of life was slowly disappearing.
On and on she read, pouring a fresh cup of coffee for herself when her first cup got cold. As she read, she not only got to know the fishermen of Gloucester, she also learned more about the author—about what he respected and what he cherished in life, about the way he looked at the world.
“What are you doing?”
Amy jumped at the sound of his voice, pressing her palm to her chest. “You scared me,” she said.
His expression was cool with just a hint of aggravation. She put the manuscript down, realizing that she’d made a mistake in looking at it at all. “I’m sorry. I just picked it up and started reading. I didn’t mean to do anything wrong. It’s just that once I started, I couldn’t stop.” Amy smiled up at him. “It’s a wonderful book.”
He shifted, clearly surprised by her compliment. His eyes were still sleepy and his hair mussed, and the stubble of beard that had shadowed his face the night before looked even more rakish. He wore only a pair of jeans and Amy couldn’t help it when her eyes returned again and again to his broad chest and muscled belly. How could he possibly be so perfect, she wondered. There had to be a flaw somewhere.
“I didn’t mean to snoop,” she said with a light laugh. “I’m just a curious person. I always have been.”
He shrugged. “It’s not finished yet.”
“I know,” Amy said, picking up the pages and flipping through them. “If you ask me, the book needs a bit more depth. I wanted to know more about the personal lives of these men, what they wanted to be when they grew up, what their dreams were. Why they decided that fishing was their only option in life. And their wives and their friends, I wanted to know them, too. Did you ever think about interviewing them? It might add more color to your story.” She stopped short, realized that she might have insulted him. Why was she always so quick to give her opinion, even when it wasn’t requested? “Not that it needs more color. It’s very colorful as it is.” She drew a deep breath. “I really don’t know what I’m talking about, so just ignore me. Besides being a snoop, I often stick my foot in my mouth.”
Brendan stared at her for a long moment. “You know something about writing,” he said. “You have good instincts.”
She smiled at the compliment. “I studied American literature in college.” The smile wavered. “Before I dropped out, that is. And I read a lot. Fashion magazines, mostly.” It wouldn’t do for him to think she was too smart. He might start to ask questions.
“Where did you go to college?” Brendan asked as he moved to pour himself a mug of coffee.
“A small junior college near Los Angeles,” Amy lied. She made a mental note to keep her story straight. Her family was on the West Coast, though she hadn’t named a definite location. Now, she claimed to attend a nameless junior college in California. “You know, I could help you with your book. I noticed that you have all these notes and they’re very disorganized. I could type and proofread and make suggestions. I could be your assistant.”
He laughed. “I don’t need an assistant,” Brendan said, raking his hands through his hair as he took a place across the table from her.
She picked up the notes he’d scribbled on Longliner cocktail napkins. “I think you do. From what I can tell, you still need to check facts and there are some gaps in your research. And once you finish this book, you must have other projects. I could help you with all of that. Besides you do owe me.”
His eyebrow rose. “Owe you?”
“It’s because of you that I lost my job. And my place to stay.”
He stared at her for a long moment and hope began to grow in her heart. Was he actually considering her proposal? And if she did become his assistant, did that mean she could continue to stay on his boat? “All right,” he finally said. “Just for grins, let’s say I did need an assistant. What sort of compensation would you expect?”
“Three hundred dollars a week,” Amy said firmly. “Cash. Plus a place to stay.”
Brendan shook his head. “Three hundred dollars a week? I’m not a rich man. Besides, if I paid you that much, then I’d sure as hell want to deduct it on my taxes. One hundred dollars a week in cash.”
“Two-fifty,” Amy countered, then quickly amended it to two hundred. “Cash and a place stay. And that’s my final offer.”
“Two hundred cash and a place to stay?”
“Yes,” she said. “That’s what I was making at the bar.”
Brendan drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. Amy waited, silently praying that she hadn’t made a mistake by asking for too much. “All right,” he said. “But for two hundred—cash—you do anything I ask.”
She frowned, her eyes narrowing. “Oh, no,” Amy said, pushing to her feet. “I may be desperate, but I’m not that—”
“That’s not what I mean,” Brendan said.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not talking about sexual favors,” he replied. “If you’re going to be my assistant, then I may ask you to take care of some things that might not be writing-related. Like grocery shopping or running errands or cleaning up the galley. An assistant needs to be prepared to do anything to make a writer’s life easier.”
“I can do that,” Amy said.
“And you sleep in your own cabin. I’ll get you some new blankets and a space heater. And you ask before you snoop through my things. I value my privacy. I’m not used to having people around and I don’t want you to get underfoot.”
“All right,” Amy said. Though she made the promises, she didn’t intend to keep all of them. She’d always been a naturally curious person, so snooping was part of her nature. She was also gregarious, so getting underfoot was just her way of socializing. And after one night in Brendan Quinn’s bed, Amy had the distinct impression that it wouldn’t be her last. “But I have one request. I mean besides two hundred a week and a place to stay and a new down comforter of my own.”
“What is that?” Brendan asked.
She stared down at her coffee mug, trying to decide exactly what to tell him. Or whether to tell him at all. “If anyone comes around here, looking for me, no matter who it is, I want you to say that you don’t know me and that you’ve never seen me before in your life. Can you do that?”
“Someone’s going to come here looking for you?” he asked. “Who?”
“Never mind,” she said. “Can you do that for me?”
“What’s this all