Ties by Steph Campbell, Liz Reinhardt Read Free Book Online Page A

deserted. A few older people lounge on the decks of massive yachts, calling to one another like they’ve been neighbors for decades. Maybe they have been. Gulls float on the breezes that flap hundreds of different flags and sails, making a snapping cacophony that sounds official and crisp.
    Above the swell of the wind and the chatter of gulls is the low, mournful whistle of “Danny Boy.”
    My maternal grandfather joined the navy just before World War II and got stationed with a bunch of Irish sailors who cemented his love for dark ale and melancholy ballads. I remember him singing me “Danny Boy” when he pushed me on the swings as a kid. The memory of that feeling--my feet swinging high above my head, my stomach catching and rushing up into my throat as Lolo’s strong hands pressed at my back, his gruff laugh tangled with my high, half-scared squeals--is all tied up with this tune.
    At first I’m happy enough just to hear it, but then I get the urge to follow it too.
    Maybe I swallowed too much seawater, because I go ahead and let myself get led by the haunting melody, apparently not concerned if the person whistling is someone who might abduct and murder a stupidly curious woman wandering a near-deserted pier.
    I find the lips where the whistle is coming from and all thoughts of doom slide away.
    They’re really good lips.
    Lips that look soft and capable, set off by a strong jaw in a tanned face. The guy is probably my age, maybe a little older. He’s hunched over, scrubbing the deck of a boat like he’s a pirate king and this is his prized vessel. There’s a thin cotton shirt draped over the deck bannister, and his naked back glistens with sweat and moves in a complicated jigsaw of gorgeous muscles that pop out and recede as he stretches his long arms in one direction, then another.
    The curve of his spine is like a bow, his arms are taut as strings, and I can see the promise of abs in the shadows curled under his body. He has dark messy hair, just overlong enough to fall into his eyes now and then and slightly matted like he’d been swimming in the ocean. I want to see his eye color. I want to listen to him whistle forever.
    He finishes the song, sits back on his heels, wipes his brow, and looks my way, his face brightening suddenly. He puckers his lips again, and I bristle, waiting for a wolf whistle, but he whistles “Siúil a Rún” instead...the song my grandmother learned to sing for Lolo. It made him cry every time she belted it out.
    “That’s a woman’s song,” I inform him.
    He has to stop whistling because his smile breaks his pucker. “Is it?”
    His eyes are a deep, clear blue-green.
    “I mean that the song is from a woman’s point of view. She--the woman--sings it about her lover who’s gone off to war.”
    I clamp my mouth closed and wish I’d put my cover-up on, but my suit was still wet, and I didn’t expect to run into anybody else. His eyes take a quick inventory. I appreciate the fact that he’d clearly like to run a longer examination but doesn’t.
    “My mother would love you. She cried when she found out I dropped my Gaelic lessons.” His grin is very tempting, but I’m excellent at resisting temptation.
    “My grandfather has a thing for Irish ballads.”
    Correction: I’m excellent at resisting some temptations. I don’t come closer, I don’t return his smile. But I can’t help chatting.
    “My mother cried when I told her I couldn’t remember how to speak her ‘weird talk’ anymore. I spoke nothing but Tagalog until I was three. Now I hardly know any of it.”
    “Tagalog?” he asks.
    “My mother’s family is from the Philippines.”  Why am I giving this guy so much personal information?
    “No kidding. My parents honeymooned in Manila. My dad had all these plans to go back for one of their anniversaries.” He wipes his hands on his shorts and holds one out to me. “Ryan Byrne.”
    I shake my head and pull back before I get myself any deeper in.
    “I’m