A Star to Steer Her By

By Beth Anne Miller

"The best sexual tension I've read in a long time—combined with the wonderfully fresh plot and memorable characters, I didn't put this book down once!" —Lauren Layne, NYT bestselling author

I'm scarred. Broken.

I'll never be the same.

Ever since my last dive ended in bloodshed, I've been terrified to go back into the water. But I need to get my life back. And I've convinced myself a semester at sea is the only way to do it.

I never expected Tristan MacDougall.

Rugged, strong, and with demons of his own, Tristan helps me find the courage I thought I had lost and heals me with every stolen moment we share…even though the rules of the ship mean we can't be together.

But that's the least of our problems, because my biggest fear has become a reality, and I'm not sure either one of us will survive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Macmillan Publishers
• Release date: Mar 20, 2017
• ISBN: 9781633758438

Book preview

To my dad, Sam Miller, for taking me scuba diving all over the Caribbean, and to my mom, Lois Miller, for not (totally) freaking out when I said I wanted to go to sea for nine weeks on a schooner—and to both of you for being wonderful parents.

To my brother, Rob Miller, for being an amazing guy, and for making it really difficult to write about a girl who’s angry at her brother.

Chapter One

The boat loomed before me in the cerulean water of San Juan Bay, Puerto Rico.

No, not a boat—a ship. Boat was too small and insignificant a word. Boat described Speedy, the little putt-putt dinghy I sat in, along with five other wide-eyed college kids and a blond deckhand named Nick.

The ship completely dwarfed Speedy. Her white hull shined brightly against the blue water. Two towering, polished wooden masts stretched far up into the sky. Canvas sails were neatly furled and bound to horizontal booms.

It was easy to see why ships were always referred to as she, because this ship looked like an elegant, classy lady. She was a throwback to a time when it took weeks for people to cross the ocean instead of hours in an airplane, when ships were powered by muscle, sweat, and blood instead of powerful engines, when the sun and stars—not a GPS—were used to determine one’s location.

That ship would be my home for the next two and a half months, as I sailed throughout the Caribbean and up the Atlantic Seaboard of the United States during the spring semester of my sophomore year of college at the University of Miami. But it was no cruise. In addition to taking classes, we’d be part of the crew, standing watch and learning how to steer, sail, navigate, and everything else that went with operating a tall ship.

The Semester at Sea was a special program offered by an independent organization called Marine Classroom. It was small, nationally accredited, and super competitive, and the course credits were transferable. It would count as a full semester at the University of Miami. The tuition was even covered by my scholarship. Participation in this program would sweeten my resume, which in turn would help me get a great internship and hopefully a job after college. In a highly competitive field like marine biology, I needed any edge I could get.

I’d wanted to be a marine biologist ever since I got my Junior Open Water scuba certification at age ten. I’d been on countless dives and seen so many amazing creatures—no two dives on the same patch of reef were ever the same—and I wanted to make a career of studying those creatures and that world. I’d worked my ass off to get into this program.

Which was what I’d told myself every day in the three months since I’d received my acceptance letter to Semester at Sea, each time I’d opened the email I’d drafted to withdraw myself from the program, stared at it for a long moment, then closed it, unsent. I’d wanted this so badly, for so long. If I quit now, it would ruin everything I’d worked so hard for.

Hey, you all right?

I looked up into the friendly brown eyes of the guy sitting next to me, then followed his gaze down to where I’d been unconsciously bouncing my knee. I’m okay, thanks. Just nervous. Understatement.

Nervous? Are you kidding? This is going to be awesome!

His eyes sparkled with enthusiasm, and I couldn’t help smiling. I hoped he was right.

Nick guided Speedy alongside the ship, just under a ladder comprised of wooden slats and braided rope. He cut the engine and stood, grabbing the side of the ladder to hold the small boat as steady as possible.

He slid his sunglasses down his nose and grinned. Okay, ladies and gentlemen, this is the last stop. Please check your immediate seating area for anything you might have brought on board with you. The crew will get your duffels.

Everyone jumped up, eager to board the ship. I staggered slightly as the small boat shifted under my feet, mentally cursing my unsteady legs, and stuck my arms through the straps of my backpack. I slowly climbed up the wobbly ladder, focusing on each step and clutching the ropes tightly as the ship rocked with the movement of the water.

Need a hand?

I looked up into eyes the color of the sky in late September: sharp, clear blue. His hair had probably been average brown at one time, but it had been caressed by the sun and had streaks of blond, gold, and copper that people would pay anything for in a salon. The sides were pulled back, and the rest of it fell in tousled waves nearly to his shoulders. Not many men could pull off that look, but this guy definitely could. Sunglasses dangled on a cord around his neck. He was just a little older than me—maybe twenty-one or twenty-two.

He was still holding out his hand. When a hot guy offers you his hand, you take it. I let go of the ladder with my right hand and he helped me up the last step onto the deck. His fingers were long and tanned, with a smattering of scars across the knuckles and the crease of his thumb. The calluses on his palm scratched lightly against my skin. He’d clearly been sailing for years, hauling on lines and getting nicked here and there.

I glanced back up at his face. He grinned slowly, the kind of grin that caused otherwise sensible girls to do stupid things, and said something like, I need ma hand back noo.

He was Scottish? That just bumped him up to I’m doomed.

Then it clicked what he’d said. I dropped his hand as casually as I could. Making a stellar first impression. Thanks for the help.

No worries. Welcome aboard, Red, he said, with a delightful roll of his Rs.

Red. A nickname I’d been stuck with forever, given my long, wavy red hair, which currently hung over my shoulder in a braid as wide as my wrist. But it was a lot less annoying when spoken with a Scottish accent.

He turned back to the rail, and I took the opportunity to check out the rest of him. He was tall and barefoot, and wore faded, frayed cargo shorts. A worn-looking belt around his waist held a tooled leather sheath with a knife handle sticking up from it. Nick had a similar one—it was obviously a deckhand’s tool. He wore a navy Crew T-shirt like Nick, but his had the sleeves torn off. Obviously.

The muscles in his tanned arms flexed as he swung a huge, floral-patterned duffel bag over the rail and set it on the deck with a thud.

What the hell is in here, a box o’ rocks?

I dunno, man, said Nick. He swung his leg over the rail and dropped lightly to the deck. "I’m surprised it didn’t sink Speedy."

Be careful with that! A pretty girl with unnaturally straight blond hair stretched out her French-manicured hand and snatched the handles of the duffel and the matching oversize—and overstuffed—shoulder bag that sat next to it. She hefted the smaller bag on top of the duffel, popped up the handle, and rolled them away.

Clearly, she hadn’t gotten the memo about storage space being limited. I rolled my eyes and turned back toward the hot deckhand, just in time to catch him rolling his eyes as well.

Smiling to myself, I fetched my bag and lugged it over to the middle of the deck. A young woman with a clipboard approached. What’s your last name? she asked in a Southern accent.

Goodman.

She scanned the clipboard, made a note, and looked up with a smile on her freckled face. Hi, Ariana, I’m Kristy, the deckhand for B Watch. You’re assigned to bunk number seven, she continued, pointing to a nearby hatch with a stairway leading down. Go ahead and stow your gear, and I’ll be there in a minute to explain some things to y’all. I’ll hand you your bag when you get to the bottom.

Thanks. Oh, and just call me Ari, I said as I headed for the stairs.

Careful on the steps—treat them like a ladder.

Indeed, the stairway really was more like a ladder with wide steps. It was almost vertical, and descending facing forward would most likely result in a tumble. Thanks for the warning.

I got to the bottom and reached up for my bag. It was stuffy in the cabin, and it smelled musty and damp. I wrinkled my nose and turned around.

I’d known when I applied to the program that I wouldn’t have a Titanic-style stateroom, or even a cabin like the ones on a cruise ship. Which was good, since the cabin was neither of those things.

It was one long room with recessed bunks along the sides. Number Seven was an upper bunk. There was no ladder—I had to stand on the bench alongside the lower bunk and scoot up. I pulled aside the privacy curtain. There was a reading lamp and a small mirror tacked to the wall, and a storage cubby ran along the back wall and around the foot of the bunk, which was narrower than a twin bed. There was just enough room for me to sit upright between the crossbeams.

Good thing I wasn’t claustrophobic.

I heaved up my duffel bag and backpack, catching sight of my reflection in the mirror. I had a halo of short, wispy pieces of hair sprouting around my face, escapees from my braid. My wide greenish-hazel eyes had dark smudges underneath from lack of sleep, and my skin was ghostly pale. Lovely.

Before I could do anything about my hair, Kristy appeared at the bottom of the ladder. Let me show you guys the head real fast. There were two bathrooms, or heads, one on each side of the ladder. The blonde with the matching luggage and a stunning African-American girl with green eyes and purple streaks in her hair stared into the one on the right with identical expressions of dismay.

What was the problem? I peered over their shoulders. Oh. The room was tiny. There was a small sink and some shelves with supplies. As for the toilet, instead of an attached tank with a handle to flush, there was a flexible pipe with a lever attached to it mounted on the wall. It was similar to the head on the various dive boats I’d been on (and had managed to avoid), but somehow, I’d expected more from a ship we’d be living on for months.

Hey, ladies, let me get in there.

I stepped aside to let Kristy into the small room. She showed us how to pump water into the toilet before using it and how to pump it out when we were done.

It’s pretty simple, once you get the hang of it. Kristy started for the ladder as we stood there gaping. ’Kay, guys, the captain wants you all on deck. Give your snorkel gear to Nick in the fo’c’sle and then muster at midships.

I grabbed the bag with my mask, fins, snorkel, and wetsuit out of my duffel and went up on deck. I followed everyone to the bow of the ship, where Nick stood in a miniscule cabin, which was known formally as the forecastle, but shortened to fo’c’sle. He barely fit in the doorway. I handed him the mesh bag.

You cold? he asked.

I’m sorry? Cold? It was probably eighty-five degrees.

You shivered when you handed me your gear.

Oh. Um, no, just someone walked over my grave, I guess. I’m fine. Get a hold of yourself, Goodman. You haven’t even been here ten minutes yet. Plenty of time to freak out later.

I rejoined my shipmates at midships, literally, the area at the middle of the ship. We stood in front of a large locker, above which rested one of the large, neatly furled sails. A tall, lanky man came through the crowd of students and hopped up onto the locker. He was barefoot and wearing khaki shorts like the other crew members, but he had on a white polo shirt instead of a navy T-shirt. His brown hair was liberally streaked with silver, and mirrored sunglasses hid his eyes.

"Welcome to the Megaptera Novaengliae. I’m Captain Brian MacDougall." Another one from Scotland? He glanced around the deck. "Anyone know what Megaptera Novaengliae means?"

I tentatively raised my hand, relieved to see that others had their hands up, too. Good to know I wasn’t the only nerd on board.

The captain lowered his sunglasses, his piercing blue eyes meeting mine.

The lass with the red hair. What’s your name?

Ari Goodman, Captain.

Go ahead, Ms. Goodman.

It’s the scientific name for the humpback whale. It means ‘Giant-winged New Englander,’ I added, hoping I didn’t sound like a know-it-all.

Brilliant. He smiled at me, and I felt my face flush at his praise. "The ship was built in Maine, so that makes her a New Englander, and when you see her under full sail, the rest of the name will make sense as well. The whole name’s a mouthful, though, so we just call her ‘the Meg.’

"The Meg is a two-masted, gaff-rigged schooner. Her length overall, including the bowsprit, is about 130 feet, and her length on deck is 95 feet. To give you some sense of scale, that’s about the equivalent of three city buses sitting end to end. Her beam, or width, is 25 feet."

Not very big, is she?

I looked over at the guy I’d chatted with earlier on the ship’s tender. No, she’s definitely a lot smaller than I expected. I’d seen plenty of pictures of the Meg, and watched the promo video on YouTube. The ship had looked huge in those pictures, but it was all relative. When you add in hatches and lockers and barrels, less than a hundred feet by twenty-five feet just isn’t that big, especially with roughly twenty-five people on board.

I wonder how we’re going to get through these two months without killing each other, I mused.

A lot of deodorant and a sense of humor, he said with a grin. It’s Ari, right? I’m Kevin Garcia.

Nice to meet you, I said, shaking his outstretched hand.

He had messy brown hair, chocolate-colored eyes framed by long lashes, and a mischievous smile. That smile, and the accompanying glint in his eyes, reminded me of my twin brother Josh’s smile, so much so that the sight made my heart ache.

I hadn’t seen Josh’s smile or that glint in his eyes in months. Six months, to be precise. Since his actions had led to six months of pain for me. We used to do everything together, from boating to scuba diving to hanging out on and off campus with our group of friends, but I’d barely spoken to him since then.

Even so, we’d never really been apart—we even went to the same university, even though I hadn’t been there in a while—and being so far away from him felt…wrong. I had this weird, hollow feeling in my stomach that wasn’t hunger, wasn’t nausea. It was my twin not being there.

I managed a smile for Kevin, then turned away before he wondered what was wrong with me.

While the captain went into further detail about the ship, I scoped out the other students. There were more girls than guys, which surprised me. I thought for sure that more guys would want to be out here, grungy, barefoot, and bare chested, preferring outdoor physical activity to being in a classroom.

Excuse me. Everyone turned to look at the blonde with the perfect hair. Where are the showers? I didn’t see any below deck.

The captain smiled pleasantly. What’s your name, lass?

Jenny Bradford.

"Well, Ms. Bradford, you did bring your Lemon Joy, right?"

What does that have to do with anything?

"There aren’t any showers on board the Meg, Jenny," I replied. When I’d read that on the message boards last year when I’d applied, I’d had a minor meltdown. But my brother had convinced me that it was all part of the experience. Jury was still out on that.

Jenny gaped at me like I’d spoken Greek. What do you mean, there aren’t any showers?

We just don’t have the space for them, or the capacity to store that much water, said the captain.

"My father’s yacht is like half the size of this boat, and it has a shower. I don’t understand why this ship doesn’t. Are you saying we have to go for two and a half months with no shower?" Jenny shrieked like a four-year-old running through an icy sprinkler.

From the sudden outburst among my shipmates, it was clear that a few others hadn’t done their research, either. The crew seemed to be enjoying themselves—they obviously went through this at the beginning of every semester and never got tired of it. Finally, the captain called for our attention.

"Ms. Bradford, I’m sorry you were misinformed. Of course no one expects you to go for over two months without bathing. There will be a few ports along the way where showers will be available at the docks. But when we’re not at those ports, you’re going to have to make do with Lemon Joy, which lathers in salt water. Buckets if we’re at sea, and if we’re anchored, and I give the okay, then you can lather up and jump in. He grinned. Seriously, this isn’t the end of the world. No one has died from bathing in seawater…at least not in the last two years or so."

His expression sobered. The purpose of this semester is to give you guys an experience unlike anything you’ve had before. You will learn about the sea, about sailing, and most of all, you will learn about yourselves. I promise you that when you step onto the dock in New York City in ten weeks, you will be different people than you are now. Okay, I’d like the crew to come up and introduce themselves.

A fit, middle-aged man with graying blond hair stepped up. I’m Professor Arthur Sullivan, but you can call me Sully. I’ll be teaching maritime history, literature and writing, and marine biology and ecology. This program is so exciting because it offers a unique opportunity for an up-close-and-personal look at the marine life and ecosystems of coral reefs, mangroves, and the open sea. The experience is always different, and I can’t wait to see what you guys think.

He was practically bouncing with enthusiasm. I had a feeling Professor Sully was going to be pretty awesome.

A man in his mid-twenties with a shaved head and ebony skin stood up next, introducing himself in a lilting Caribbean accent as Justin from Trinidad. Then Jenny started complaining about the inhumane hygiene conditions again, and I couldn’t make out anything else.

Shh! I hissed. I can’t hear what he’s saying.

Oh, I’m sorry, she said insincerely. Just because you’re okay with not showering for two months doesn’t mean the rest of us are.

I shrugged. Primitive showers were the least of my concerns. I just figure it’s all part of the experience, you know? Besides, we’ve had months to get used to the idea. Didn’t you read the brochures and stuff?

She flushed slightly, then looked down her nose at me (even though I was taller, which made it an impressive feat). I didn’t see anything about the lack of showers. I thought this was more like a cruise.

Really? This was a really competitive program, requiring a ridiculously high grade point average, in addition to glowing recommendations and a kick-ass essay. She must have applied at least last spring, like I had. How was it that in all that time, she hadn’t bothered to read everything (or anything) she could about the program?

Before I could ask if she was joking, her eyes flicked to something behind me, and her face underwent a complete transformation, her lips curving in a slow smile.

I turned to see the hot deckhand from before coming up behind me. Hey, Red. He flashed that killer grin at me, displaying deep dimples in both cheeks that I hadn’t noticed earlier, and then hopped up onto the locker.

I’m Tristan MacDougall, deckhand for A Watch. MacDougall—that explained the accent. He was the captain’s son. I could see the resemblance now. They had similar features, though the captain was thinner, almost haggard-looking, as though he’d been ill in the recent past.

The name suited Tristan. With the wind tousling his long hair, his strong body outlined against the sky, it wasn’t hard to imagine him in a kilt, standing on some misty moor like the Arthurian hero with the same name.

There was a sharp poke in my side and, startled, I looked over to see Kevin smirking at me. Put your tongue back in your mouth.

Zip it, I said, jabbing him with my elbow. I looked back as Tristan hopped down from the locker and joined his fellow deckhands. I watched Jenny’s heavily mascaraed eyes track him before she turned back to me. The look in her eyes clearly said, Game On.

This was going to be an interesting few months.

Chapter Two

We had thirty minutes to stow our gear down below before orientation. I stood on the bench in front of my bunk and stuffed my clothes and toiletries into the cubbyholes in semi-organized piles.

We’d been told not to bring laptops or cell phones as there would be no service aboard the ship, and limited sources of electricity with which to charge things. I had my cell with me anyway, for emergencies, and for use once we were back in the States. I would probably go through some severe texting withdrawal with my friends back home, but for now, I was actually looking forward to unplugging.

I pulled out the photos I’d stuck in a book to keep them from getting bent, and tacked them up next to the mirror with some pushpins. One of my parents, one of me and my two best friends from home, and one of me and Josh.

There was something soft at the bottom of the bag that I hadn’t put there. I reached in and pulled out a pillowcase stuffed with something. At the top was a note in Josh’s neat-for-a-guy handwriting.

Hey Ari-

Thought you’d like to have this to remind you of home. I wanted you to know that I’m so proud of you for having the courage to go through with the semester at sea after everything you’ve been through. I hope one day you’ll forgive me.

~Love, Josh

I glanced up at the photo of the two of us. I hadn’t even planned to bring it, but I’d grabbed it at the last minute. Our red hair was shining in the sun, and we were holding up rabbit ears over each other’s heads and grinning like fools. We looked silly and carefree. That was six months ago, and neither of us had smiled that way since.

And it was his goddamn fault.

I crumpled his note and tossed it into a corner of my bunk. I didn’t want to see what he’d put in my bag, but curiosity got the better of me.

I reached into the pillowcase and withdrew a ragged stuffed horse. Lancelot. Josh had given him to me for my tenth birthday. He smelled faintly of Josh’s cologne, and I had an awful image in my head of my brother holding the toy to him, despondent and full of guilt. I shoved Lancelot back into the pillowcase and returned it to my duffel bag, blinking away tears.

Homesick already?

I looked up, startled to see Kevin standing there. Embarrassed that he’d caught me at a vulnerable moment, I quickly wiped my eyes. A little, I replied. It was easier to go with that than talk about my brother with a stranger. Or with anyone.

I bet once we’re out at sea, you’ll be having such an awesome time that you’ll forget all about it.

Unlikely. I hope you’re right. It’s my first time really being away.

You go to college near home?

I’m from Key Largo, Florida, and I go to U of Miami. Only an hour or so away.

I’m at Miami, too. I don’t remember seeing you around, though. He tweaked the end of my braid. I don’t think I’d forget the hair.

Well, it’s a pretty big school.

True. He cocked his head to the side. Though…there’s a Josh Goodman in my dorm, who has hair the same color as yours.

Not a big enough school, apparently. My twin brother.

That makes sense. Nice guy.

Yes, my brother was a nice guy. Which made everything that much worse.

All hands on deck! came a shout from up above, saving me from replying to Kevin.

We’ll talk later. I grabbed a notebook from my bag and hopped down from the bench without thinking. I couldn’t stop the hiss of pain that shot up my leg when my feet hit the floor, and Kevin looked at me sharply.

You okay?

Yeah, just stiff from the flight.

No shit. Those airplane seats are ridiculous if you’re not a hobbit. He grinned. I’m really glad to meet you, Ari. We’re going to have a blast!

I grinned back, glad to have met someone who seemed so genuinely nice.

Back on deck, we were greeted once again by the captain, who held a clipboard. There are three watch groups. Each group is led by a mate and a deckhand. The groups will be on a rotating schedule. We use a twenty-four hour clock, like in the military. It’s easy to figure out, just subtract twelve hours to get the standard time. So for example, 1500 is 3:00 p.m.

A blond guy raised his hand. How do the watches work with our classes? Do we just skip class when we’re on watch?

Good question, Mr.—?

Steve Ryan.

Sorry, Mr. Ryan, said the captain. Steve groaned dramatically, and everyone laughed. Students are excused from watch during classes, unless something comes up and we need all hands.

Within minutes, we were divided into three groups. I was in A Watch with Kevin, the exotic African-American girl, whose name was Amanda, and—oh joy—Jenny. The fifth member was Steve, who was already on his way to earning the title of Ship’s Wiseass.

A Watch, listen up! We snapped to attention at the booming voice. The tall, burly man resembled a pirate, with his shaved head, dark beard and mustache, hoop earrings, and the plethora of tattoos running down his powerful