Weymouth Harbour
"Harbourmaster Brenda has managed Weymouth's waterfront for thirty years. When sailing school owner Marcus proposes partnership, the waters get deep fast."
Weymouth Harbour had been my domain for three decades—boat traffic, moorings, the complex ballet of vessels in limited space. I knew every skipper, every berth, every quirk of tide and weather.
"Harbourmaster?" The man approaching looked like money—the boat behind him was expensive, his clothes designer-casual, but his eyes held something serious.
"Brenda. What do you need?"
"I need space for a sailing school. Marcus Cole. I've been teaching sailing in Southampton, but I want somewhere smaller. More personal."
"There's no space."
"There's reorganization." He smiled. "I've looked at your harbour. With some adjustment, you could fit six training boats without losing any current berths."
He was right, which annoyed me. We spent weeks negotiating, arguing, finding compromises that worked for everyone. Marcus was stubborn but fair, demanding but reasonable. By the time we'd agreed terms, I'd stopped wanting to strangle him.
"Why here?" I asked one evening. We'd moved from official meetings to unofficial drinks.
"Because harbours like this are dying. Marinas are soulless—floating car parks for boats. Here, there's community. History." He met my eyes. "You."
"I'm part of the harbour's appeal?"
"You're most of it. Watching you work—you know everything. Every boat, every skipper, every tide. That knowledge is irreplaceable."
"Knowledge isn't what most people notice about me."
"Most people are idiots." His hand found mine. "I've been sailing my whole life. I've met hundreds of harbourmasters. You're the first one who made me want to stay."
"That's quite a line."
"It's quite true." He leaned closer. "Can I take you to dinner? Not business. Just... you."
Dinner became drinks, became walking the harbour at night, became ending up at my cottage overlooking the water.
"This is you," Marcus said, looking at my maritime decorations.
"This is my life. The harbour's just the day version."
"I want both versions."
We made love while the boats rocked on their moorings outside, our bodies finding rhythms that the sea had taught. Marcus touched me with sailor's attention—understanding currents, riding waves, knowing when to push and when to ease.
"You're beautiful," he said.
"I'm built for harbour work."
"You're built for command." He kissed down my body. "The most beautiful thing afloat."
We came together while the tide turned, both of us finding completion that felt like safe harbour after rough passage. When I gasped his name, it was with the same certainty I felt calling boats to berth.
"Stay," I said.
"In Weymouth?"
"In my harbour. In my life." I touched his face. "The sailing school needs a base. The harbourmaster needs... something she didn't know she needed."
He stayed. The school opened, bringing new energy to old waters. And every evening, when the harbour quiets, there's a sailing instructor who comes home to the harbourmaster who manages his mooring—and everything else.
"We're good together," Marcus said one night.
"We're navigating together."
"Same thing." He pulled me closer. "All love is navigation."
The harbour still runs. The boats still moor. And now there's a sailor who became a partner, who found in my waters what he'd been sailing toward all along.