Ronan O’Malley is 62, spent 38 years captaining a commercial salmon seiner out of Newport, Oregon, before he sold the boat three years back to open a tiny bait and tackle shop off the main drag. His biggest flaw, the one his niece chews him out for every Sunday dinner, is that he’s written off every potential romantic connection for 12 years, ever since his ex-wife left him for a real estate agent in Portland and cleaned out his savings account on the way out. He swears everyone in the small coastal town only talks to him to get access to his secret fishing spots or free jars of his famous smoked salmon dip.
He only showed up to the fire department’s annual summer BBQ because his niece threatened to stop bringing him her homemade peach pie if he bailed again. He hauled a crock of dip out of his truck at 6 p.m., the hickory smoke still curling off the top, and planned to stay exactly 45 minutes before slipping back home to watch the Mariners game.
That plan went out the window when he reached for the last jar of pickled okra on the picnic table at the same time as someone else. Their knuckles brushed, rough callus on her index finger scraping against the scar across his left forearm from a 2018 winch accident, and he pulled his hand back like he’d touched a hot stove before he even looked up. She didn’t flinch. She just leaned against the edge of the table, one boot propped on the lower bench, and held eye contact for a beat longer than polite, the corner of her mouth tugging up in a smirk.
She was Marisol Ruiz, 58, the new part-time librarian who’d moved to town three months prior from Phoenix, after her ex-husband passed from a heart attack. Ronan had seen her around the shop once before, browsing the used nautical memoirs he kept by the door, but he’d hidden behind the tackle rack instead of saying hi, convinced she was just another tourist looking for a free fishing guide. The linen button-down she wore was dotted with rain spots, her dark curly hair pulled back in a loose braid that had a few strands escaping to stick to her sun-warmed cheeks, and she smelled like lavender laundry soap and old paper, the kind of scent that stuck in the back of your throat even after you’d walked away.
“Told the chief the okra would be the first thing to go,” she said, nodding at the jar between them. “Figured I’d fight whoever got there first. You look like you’d put up a decent fight, O’Malley.”
He blinked, surprised she knew his name. The only people who talked to him without an angle were his niece and the 17 year old kid who worked part time at the shop. His first instinct was to grunt, mumble something about being busy, and walk away. But she was still holding eye contact, gold flecks in her dark brown eyes catching the light of the charcoal grill 10 feet away, and he found himself leaning against the table next to her instead, close enough that their elbows brushed when he reached for his beer.
He didn’t want to like her. The little voice in the back of his head, the one that had been yelling “don’t trust anyone” for 12 years, was screaming that she was just going to ask him for a ride out to his halibut spot, or beg for free bait, or spread gossip about him around town. But she didn’t ask about any of that. She told him about how she’d tried to go clamming the week prior, and ended up knee deep in mud, lost one of her sneakers, and only came home with three tiny clams that weren’t even big enough to eat. He laughed so hard he snort-laughed, beer coming out his nose, and he didn’t even care that the group of volunteer firefighters at the next table were staring at him like he’d grown a second head.
“I know you think everyone wants something from you,” she said, quiet enough that only he could hear her over the sound of rain tapping on the metal roof. “Saw you last week outside your shop, feeding that three legged stray cat that hangs around the parking lot. You talked to it like it was an old shipmate. You’re not as much of a hardass as you want everyone to think.”
Ronan froze. He thought no one had seen that. He’d spent 12 years building up that grumpy hermit reputation on purpose, so people would leave him alone, and she’d cut right through it like it was wet paper. The voice in his head was still yelling, telling him to push her away, tell her to mind her own business, but he couldn’t do it. He told her about the ex-wife, about the savings she took, about how he’d sworn he’d never let anyone get close enough to hurt him again. She didn’t pity him. She just nodded, and told him about how her ex-husband had cheated on her for 10 years before he died, and she’d moved to Oregon to start over because she was sick of everyone in Phoenix looking at her like she was a grieving widow who needed to be coddled.
He pulled a crumpled bait shop receipt out of his jeans pocket, scribbled his cell number on the back with a pen he kept tucked behind his ear, and handed it to her. “Low tide Saturday is at 6 a.m.,” he said. “I’ve got extra waders, extra boots. I’ll teach you how to actually catch clams that are big enough to eat. And I’ll bring you a jar of the dip, no charge.”
She took the receipt, tucked it into the pocket of her jeans, and leaned up to kiss his cheek quick, her lips soft and warm against his sunburnt skin, before she turned to walk over to help the fire chief load leftover potato salad into coolers. Ronan stood there for a minute, touching the spot where her lips had touched him, the rain still tapping against the roof above, the distant sound of the Mariners game playing on a radio in the corner of the bay. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, deleted the 45 minute alarm he’d set when he first arrived, and smiled.
