Chapter 1 #3
That’s not a photography fee. That’s a down payment on a house.
Jenna’s college tuition and the kind of money that means I stop lying awake at three a.m. doing math in my head, trying to figure out how to stretch a child support check and a wedding photography season across an entire year of groceries and boat repairs and three growing kids who need new shoes every four months.
My hands start to shake. I press them flat against my thighs, but it doesn't help—the trembling moves up my arms, settles somewhere in my chest. This isn't just money.
This is Jenna not having to babysit every weekend for spending money.
Aidan's baseball cleats that aren't two sizes too small.
Millie's art supplies that aren't dollar-store knockoffs.
This is me not having to choose between fixing the water heater and buying groceries the same week.
It's the first time since Matt left that I can picture a future where I'm not constantly drowning, where my kids don't have to pretend they don't notice me skipping dinner so there's enough for seconds.
“You don’t have to answer right now,” Delilah says gently, reading my face. “Take some time to—”
“I already said yes.” My voice cracks, and I don’t even care. “I said yes and I meant it, and you’re not allowed to take it back.”
She and Levi laugh, and I join in and it’s the kind of moment I want to photograph except I can’t because I’m living it.
And then a shadow falls across the dock.
“What’s going on?”
Paul. Of course. Standing at the end of the dock with his arms crossed and his mildly aggravated face firmly in place, which, to be fair, is also his curious face and his concerned face because the man has one expression and he’s committed to it.
“Paul!” Delilah spins around with the energy of someone who’s about to ruin his entire week. “Perfect timing.”
“For what?”
“We have some news.”
“I don’t like news.”
“You’re going to love this.”
“I have never loved news.”
Delilah ignores this completely and delivers the summary: Wedding. Yacht. Here. At his marina. Celebrity event. Dock space needed. It’ll be beautiful. He’ll barely notice.
Paul’s face goes through approximately fourteen stages of reaction, none of which are excitement. Horror. Denial. A brief flicker of what might be interest when Levi mentions the docking fee. Then right back to horror.
“A mega yacht,” he says flatly. “At my marina.”
“Our marina,” I correct, because I live here too and I’ve decided that counts.
“Your houseboat doesn’t make it your marina.”
“My rent check disagrees.”
“Your rent check and a properly functioning port running light would disagree. Your rent check alone is just a suggestion.”
Delilah looks between us like she’s watching a nature documentary. Levi has the faint smile like he’s thoroughly entertained.
“Paul,” Levi says, and there’s something about his voice—calm, measured—that cuts through the bickering.
“I know this is a lot. And I know your marina isn’t built for this kind of event.
That’s exactly why we want it. We don’t want some polished resort venue.
I proposed on the pier right down there—this waterfront is where our story started.
But I also want to make sure it works for you. ”
He names a number.
Paul’s jaw tightens. Then loosens into something I’ve never seen before, which I think might be his “Processing Large Sums of Money” face.
“That’s the dock fee,” Levi adds. “Not including what we’ll need for security, setup, and any marina modifications. All of which we’d cover.”
The marina goes quiet. Even the pelicans seem to be waiting.
Paul looks at Levi. Looks at Delilah. Looks at me, for some reason, like I’m somehow responsible for this, which—okay, fine, I did encourage them to have the wedding here when we were chatting at book club, but that was before I knew about the yacht.
“I need to look at the dock specs,” Paul finally says, which is Paul-speak for “yes but I’d rather die than say yes with enthusiasm.”
“Of course.” Levi extends his hand. “Take whatever time you need.”
They shake. Paul’s grip is firm and brief, and he’s already calculating something behind his eyes—logistics, dock weight capacity, fender placement—because Paul Spencer cannot simply experience a moment without turning it into an engineering problem.
“The yacht arrives in three weeks,” Levi says casually, like he’s mentioning a package from .
“Three weeks.” Paul’s voice is very even. Dangerously even.
“Is he going to be okay?” Delilah whispers to me.
“Honestly? I have no idea. I’ve never seen him process this many emotions at once. Usually he sticks to one.”
Paul turns and walks toward the dock office without another word. His back is very straight. His shoulders are very tense. He’s either going to make a spreadsheet or have a stroke, and with Paul, it could genuinely go either way.
Delilah and Levi leave shortly after, glowing with plans, two people who are so in love it should be illegal. I wave them off, leaning against the dock railing, the summer sun hot on my shoulders and the sound sparkling like someone scattered diamonds across the water.
A yacht. A celebrity wedding. The biggest job of my career, paying more money than I’ve ever seen in one place. Happening right here, at this scruffy little marina, ten feet from my leaky houseboat.
All I have to do is pull it off. Deliver the most stunning wedding photography of my life. Manage the chaos that’s about to descend on this dock like a well-dressed hurricane.
And I have to do all of it while working alongside the man who just stormed off to his office because I represent everything he can’t control.
I look at the dock office. Through the window, I can see Paul sitting at his desk, already on his phone, already making notes, already turning chaos into order because that’s what he does.
My phone buzzes.
Delilah: Thank you, thank you, thank you. This is going to be magic.
I type back.
Me: It’s going to be something, that’s for sure.
Then I look at the dock office one more time. Paul glances up. Our eyes meet through the window.
He looks away first this time.
But not before I catch it—the tiniest crack in the grump. The smallest softening around his eyes. Like he just got dragged into something enormous and finds it a little bit exciting, not that he'd ever admit it.
I'm in so much trouble.