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Chapter Fourteen - Every Rose Has Its Thorn

"A mop? A mop?" I repeated increduously. Rosie motioned towards the spilled wine and made mopping motions.

"Yeah, do you have one?"

I blinked rapidly and looked out at the water. "You can't be here."

"I am."

"You can't be."

"Can," she said calmly. I looked back at her. There was something different about her. Her clothes weren't odd: a simple pair of capris and a t-shirt. It took me a moment to figure it out.

"Where's your cast?" I finally asked. She smiled.

"I took it off."

"You took it off?"

She nodded. "Heavy-duty kitchen shears," she explained. "They worked really well. I mean, I was supposed to have my cast off Monday, so I figured...what's a few days?"

I shook my head. "How...why..." I swallowed. "How did you get on my boat?"

She laughed. "That was easy. I got on while Tito was working."

"Why?"

"Why what?" she countered.

"Why did you sneak on?" I demanded.

"I figured it would be fun," she said easily. She spotted a mop resting against the side of the deck. She grabbed it and began to mop up the liquid.

"They'll think you were kidnapped!" I exclaimed. She looked up; there were those damn eyes again.

"I wrote Tito a note," she said. "Besides, you need me."

"I don't need you!"

"You had one moldy loaf of bread and some cheese. I'm pretty sure you would have starved. Trust me, you need me."

I clenched my fists, watching as she finished mopping. She grabbed a broom and swept up the glass. I saw how awkwardly she was using her newly uncasted arm. It was much thinner and whiter than her other one.

"Don't you need physical therapy or something?" I asked.

"Nah, I just have to use it," she said. I sighed.

"I'm taking you back," I said. She frowned.

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes."

"No," Rosie said. She marched up to me and pushed the tip of her finger into my chest. I stared down at her face. Her cheeks reddened. "I'm not going and you can't make me."

"I could pick you up and throw you overboard," I warned. Her eyes sparkled.

"I'd like to see you try," she teased.

"You're a shrimp."

"I'm a strong shrimp."

I reached out for her, but she grabbed my wrist with her good arm and did a crazy ducking movement that twisted my wrist painfully. I leaned forward, trying to wiggle myself out of the lock.

"Fuck, okay! Let go!" I yelled three minutes later, unable to shake her. She dropped her hold and I shook my whole arm out. When I looked at her, she had her hand on her hip.

"So?"

"You're a thorn in my ass," I said with a scowl.

"Every rose has its thorn," she said lightly.

"I bet you don't even know who sang that song," I challenged.

"Poison," she said calmly. I bristled.

"That song came out before you were even born."

"So what?"

"So what?" I repeated. "So what?" I wasn't quite sure what my point was. I worked quickly to come up with one, no matter how lame. "It just proves that you're immature."

"Sometimes that's not such a bad thing. You should try it sometime. A little recklessness is fun."

I didn't answer. The whole thing was ridiculous. Here I was, planning on having a quiet evening with my thoughts when out of nowhere she shows up. Now I had a girl on my boat talking a mile a minute about how I could benefit from being immature. And she was wearing those damn green flip-flops again.

And to think that I had almost kissed her the night before! Had I gone crazy?

"So do you want dinner?" she asked. She spun around and headed towards a large white net.

"I'm fine, thanks," I said angrily. I pulled out a chair and sat down, folding my arms over my chest.

"Suit yourself," she said. She walked by me with her arms piled with stuff. "I'm going to go use your stovetop."

My jaw tensed, but I didn't tell her she couldn't. She headed below deck. A few minutes later I heard the rustling of cans and pots.

Reckless. I had been reckless once. Okay, more than once. At one point in time, a running documentary of my life would have probably played out next to the word and been cross-indexed with the word impulsive. The Old Nick would have gotten a kick out of the fact that Rosie had snuck onto the boat. The Old Nick would be down below distracting her from cooking.

I groaned and shoved my hand through my hair. My body ached; it felt as if it was coiling in upon itself. I felt like my personal space was being invaded. It wasn't that she intimidated me. No, quite the contrary. It was just that---

Up through the hatch came the confident sounds of a very light airy voice singing Every Rose Has its Thorn completely off-key. The notes tickled my eardrums, sending a rush of heat through my veins. I stood up and leaned my long body over the railing. Splashes of water came up and hit my face.

"SHIT!"

I turned, my hands wrapping around the rail. "You okay?" I called. I heard a few more loud clatters and then slapping footsteps. Rosie poked her head out. The tips of her hair were covered in red sauce.

"Minor explosion," she said. "Can I have that mop again?"

"How minor?" I asked. She fidgeted.

"Totally minor. Mop?"

I didn't trust the way her nose wrinkled as she spoke. I grabbed the mop and made a sweeping motion. "I'm coming down."

I saw her wince before turning and heading back down. I ducked down, clutching the mop and prepared myself for the worst.

It wasn't the worst, by far, but it was certainly a mess. A pot of noodles bubbled happily on the stove top while a lurching, burping pan of sauce made volcanic pops. The backsplash and floor were covered. My mouth fell open.

"I turned the burner off. It's still cooling," she said. "It tastes good," she added as an afterthought. She ran her fingers down a sauce-soaked strand of hair. Suddenly, I felt my long lost chivalry flair up.

"Why don't you go take a shower," I said gently. "I'll clean this up."

"No," she said. "It's my fault. I'll--"

"I insist," I said. My mouth was watering; the food did smell delicious. My starvation at sea plan was failing miserably. "Please, go."

She seemed to detect something in my voice that kept her from arguing. She backed up. "Thanks!" she blurted, turning and disappearing into the small bathroom. I ran the mop along the floor.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw another bottle of wine, this one properly opened. I heard the shower turn on; the boat filled with the noise from the water being propelled from the reservoir.

Spaghetti. Wine. A freshly-showered female.

It was a dangerous combination, indeed.