The Engine Room

The deal mutated.

It wasn't just the dinghy. Once Isla fixed the tender (with Leo surprisingly holding the flashlight steady and not complaining about the grease), Leo confessed the bigger problem. The *Gilded Osprey*, his father’s forty-foot racing sloop, had a rattle in the auxiliary engine.

"If the Osprey isn't perfect, he won't let me race," Leo explained. They were sitting on the dock, eating lukewarm pizza Isla had ordered. "He’s obsessed with the optics. A noisy engine implies poor maintenance. Poor maintenance implies a lack of discipline."

"Your dad sounds like a ray of sunshine," Isla chewed her crust.

"He's an admiral," Leo said, looking out at the dark water. "Figuratively. And soon, literally. He expects me to follow the path."

Isla looked at him. He was wearing a grease-stained "Vance Marine" t-shirt that was too tight in the shoulders. He looked less like a golden boy and more like... a person.

"I’ll look at the Osprey," Isla sighed. "But it’s going to cost you."

"Name your price."

"You sand the hull of Mrs. Higgins' fishing trawler. My back hurts."

Leo laughed. "Done."

The next three days were a blur of humidity and confined spaces.

The engine room of the *Gilded Osprey* was luxurious by mechanical standards—white enamel and chrome—but it was tiny. To reach the mounting brackets, Isla had to crawl into the bilge. Leo had to slide in beside her to hold the tension belt.

It was ninety degrees in the harbor. Inside the boat, it was a hundred.

"Shift your leg," Isla grunted, her face inches from a hot exhaust manifold.

"I can't," Leo wheezed. "My knee is jammed against the water pump."

Isla turned her head. Leo’s face was right there. Inches away. Sweat was beading on his forehead, running down his temple. His pupils were dilated in the dim work light.

The smell of him—sweat, oil, and something sharp and citrusy—filled her lungs.

"You have grease on your nose," Leo whispered.

He reached up. His thumb brushed her cheekbone to wipe it away.

The static returned. A low buzz that vibrated through Isla’s skull. She stopped breathing. Leo’s gaze dropped to her mouth. The air felt thick, charged with potential energy waiting for a kinetic release.

"Leo," Isla warned, her voice shaky. "I'm holding a wrench. I could drop it on your foot."

"Worth it," Leo murmured. He leaned in, closing the gap.

*CLANG.*

Isla dropped the wrench. Not on his foot, but on the engine block. The noise rang out like a gunshot in the small space.

She scrambled backward, banging her elbow. "Break time. I need air."

She climbed out of the hatch, gasping for breath on the teak deck. Her heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs.

This wasn't supposed to happen. She was the skeptic. She was the girl who laughed at the tourists who fell in love in two weeks. She was leaving.

Leo climbed out after her. He looked flushed, his hair sticking up in tufts.

"Isla—"

"Don't," she held up a hand. "It’s the heat. It’s the fumes. Don't read into it."

Leo looked at her, his expression unreadable. "You felt it too. The pull."

"I felt a heat stroke coming on," Isla lied. "Get me a water."

Leo stared at her for a long moment, then nodded slowly. But the way he looked at her—like she was a puzzle he was determined to solve—didn't waver.

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