Jack & Jilted by Cathy Yardley

wanted to take her, then and there, and really make her feel better. If she wanted to forget all about her present circumstances, he’d do things to her that would make her forget her name. For a month.
    But before he could act, he got a look at her eyes. Still red-rimmed with tears and fragility and pain. She was staring at him as if he was a hero. That was completely rare, too, and more unsettling.
    “Don’t mention it,” he said, managing to make his voice sound normal. “Come on. Have a croissant.”
    And don’t look at me like that again.

3
    THAT NIGHT, CHLOE WAS still thinking of what Jack had said, about doing something little and stupid to feel better.
    After that morning’s heart-to-heart, she’d finished the croissants, fruit and coffee, going up on deck carrying her last cup carefully with her. The sky had been the lovely clear blue that she’d gotten so used to living in San Diego that she rarely even noticed it anymore. An occasional plush white cloud had dotted the horizon. There had been other sailboats out on this Sunday, taking advantage of the beautiful weather, as well. She’d been able to see the San Diego skyline off in the distance and make out the Coronado island chain. They’d just been cruising, leisurely, in no rush.
    When was the last time I wasn’t in a rush?
    She had seen Jose walk by, checking on something but being as unobtrusive as possible, grinning at her with welcome before disappearing into the cockpit or wherever it was he took care of steering the boat. She enjoyed watching the front of the boat cut into the waves in front of her and loved the feel of the ocean swelling beneath her.
    She knew she probably ought to get down to it: write out a list of discussion points for her conversation with Gerald, as well as work on her résumé and compile a list of likely target Web sites to start her job hunt. But she couldn’t quite get motivated. She wasn’t miserable—at least, she didn’t feel the same way she had that morning, armed to the teeth with grim determination to put everything behind her, wear a brave face and soldier on. She was sort of stuck but strangely okay with that fact.
    I want to do something stupid and foolish to feel better.
    She’d made lunch and dinner for the crew, over their objections, and had enjoyed the process enormously. She’d forgotten how much she loved cooking, as well, and the trip was reminding her of it. When she was chopping vegetables or sautéing meat, she didn’t think of anything but what she was working on, and that was meditative and relaxing all by itself. The satisfied sounds coming from the men eating her food were their own reward, she realized. Especially Jack, who seemed to love food almost as much as he loved his ship and the ocean. And she’d never met anyone who adored anything as much as he seemed to love the ocean.
    She wondered absently what it would be like, to be the focus of that kind of passion.
    So here she was, in her cabin, wearing her nightgown. It was only nine o’clock, and she was restless. She didn’t have anything to read, there was no TV and listening to music only seemed to add to her frustration.
    She belted the robe over her nightgown and slipped on her flat shoes and wandered up to the deck. She had plenty of practice and she’d be careful, but she figured she could pace at least. Maybe the sea air would lull her to sleep.
    She stepped out on deck, and the sight momentarily robbed her of breath. The moon looked enormous, as if it were mere feet from the water, throwing its reflection in a million little diamondlike shards on the black ocean surface. There was a breeze, chilly and scented with brine, that caused her to clutch the neck of her robe a bit tighter. The sounds of the waves lapping against the hull were hypnotic.
    “What did I tell you?”
    She turned, gasping momentarily, then smiling. Jack was there, watching her. She didn’t know how long he’d been there, leaning against the wall,