Chapter 2
The brim of my baseball hat gets knocked up, forcing me to squint at the sun.
“I’d say you look like shit. But frankly, that’s offensive to shit.”
I scowl at Gus. Yawning ruins the effect of my annoyance some. “Your shirt is on inside out.”
Gus rolls his eyes before glancing down. He laughs. “Woke up late. Thanks for saving my ass with Dusty.”
I grunt an acknowledgment.
Augustus Griffin is the most cheerful, genuine person I know. Anyone who’s met the two of us wonders how we possibly ended up best friends. Wonders why he is best friends with me, rather.
Gus fixes his shirt, runs a hand through his shaggy blond hair, and then takes a seat on the opposite side of the picnic table. “All good, Cap?”
I scratch my forehead, then tug the brim of my hat down more securely. “Yeah. You?”
“Uh-huh.”
I feel Gus’s eyes on me, but I keep mine aimed at the horizon.
The view is the main reason I stick with this job.
I could make more money caddying, and lifeguarding would be a lot less work.
But I don’t want to be stuck staring at the ocean on the green with a bunch of boring rich guys or beyond swarms of screaming kids.
I want to admire it like this, interrupted by nothing except the occasional mast. The way the sea is supposed to be admired.
On a clear day, like this one, you can see the stripes of the lighthouse located past the breakwater.
“She made it to shore okay?”
Gus’s question is more of a fishing expedition than a simple query, but it’s subtler than the other ways I’ve gotten asked about this topic. Like Cammie’s all-caps WHAT THE FUCK? text waiting when I remembered to charge my phone late last night.
“You’d have heard about it if she hadn’t.” I reach for my mug, covering the Atlantic Yacht Club logo printed on the ceramic with my thumb.
Wren Kensington’s disappearance would have made national news.
If I’d sunk beneath the waves, it would have been a very different local headline.
“You talk to her after?” Gus’s tone falls far short of casual.
I clocked his interest in Wren the second I stepped into that clearing. Gus is a good guy, but he’s not normally that concerned with a stranger’s safety.
“Not really.” I sip more coffee.
“Bennett! Griffin! The Ellsworth boat is headed out today. Make sure it’s ready.” Dusty, the marina manager, hurries past, appearing more stressed than usual.
Monday’s the Fourth of July, also known as our busiest day of the season.
“Now!” he adds loudly, without glancing back to check if either of us has moved. “Pratt and Quincy are already down there.”
I have two theories about why Dusty insists on referring to marina employees only by their last names.
One, it saves him the trouble of learning our first names.
Two, it makes him feel more important. Like a lieutenant commanding troops during battle, not a fifty-something-year-old man in charge of a horde of hungover teens and a fleet of very expensive boats.
I stand with a sigh and stretch, downing the rest of my coffee before heading toward the gangplank. Heavy footfalls tell me Gus is following.
The Ellsworth yacht is impossible to miss. It’s the biggest boat in the yard, sleek and shiny and fast. The younger guys always argue over who gets to service it, wanting their chance to check the bilge and fuel levels and other regular maintenance simply for a chance to get close to the vessel.
Four guys are three too many for a standard safety check, but it means we’ll be finished in record time.
And I get why Dusty wanted it completed so quickly when he approaches with a large group behind him right as we’re wrapping up.
He’s talking animatedly to the silver-haired man who’s walking in front.
I kneel and squeeze a fender, double-checking its inflation, before glancing at Gus. He’s chatting with Mike Quincy, a sophomore who started this summer, oblivious to what I immediately noticed—Wren Kensington is part of the group headed this way.
I don’t pay close attention to gossip about the Hamptons’ elite.
I make an effort to purposefully ignore it as much as possible actually.
I could not care less who’s having an affair with whom or whose company just went public for a bajillion dollars.
But I dimly recall Ellsworth’s daughter is married to a Kensington.
Hanson Ellsworth is a chatty, boastful sort, especially when he has a captive audience counting on tips. I’m not sure where Wren is located on the family tree, but it’s close enough to Hanson to receive a coveted invitation out on his pride and joy.
Her golden-and-pink hair is pulled up in a ponytail today, showing off the perfect symmetry of her face. If she needed more money, Wren Kensington could make a lot off her looks.
I think she’s noticed me, too, although I can’t tell for sure since her sunglasses shield the direction of her gaze. I have this sense she has, which sounds stupid to even think.
“Who’s that?” Ricky Pratt mutters under his breath to my left.
“Dunno,” I reply, pretending my eyes weren’t focused on the same spot a second ago.
“Cap! Gimme a hand here?”
I turn, spotting Wade Greene steering a pontoon boat in a few slips down. I head Wade’s way, catching the line he tosses me. I secure it around the cleat, then do the same at the stern.
“Smooth ride?” I ask, grinning.
Wade flips me off before vaulting over the gate.
Pontoon boats are tricky in the ocean. They’re not as seaworthy as deep-V hulls—equipped to handle moderate choppiness and short coastal trips in good conditions, but not much else. Dusty keeps a couple around because tourists sometimes request them.
“Hey, isn’t that the chick from last night?” Wade asks, glancing in the direction I came from.
I don’t turn to look before shrugging.
The feigned nonchalance feels foreign. I’ve never had to act oblivious before; I genuinely haven’t cared.
“Probably.”
“Wren Kensington, right? Why’d you go after her? Cammie was pissed.” Wade chuckles at the memory.
Yeah, got that vibe from her text.
“None of her business,” I say. Or yours.
“C’mon, man. You know she wants it to be.”
I do know. Which is why I haven’t touched Cammie since last summer. I might be an asshole, but I’m not one who intentionally hurts his friends.
“Hey, Cap.”
My heart does this silly somersault in my chest when I recognize her voice.
I turn slowly, making a show of lowering my gaze to make eye contact.
Wren isn’t especially tall, but I wouldn’t describe her as short either. Partially because I don’t have to crane my neck—I’m just enjoying the view down her shirt—but mostly because she carries a confidence that adds to her height.
“Hey.” I don’t use her name, even though I remember it. It fits her. A little wild. Unusual. Intriguing.
She pushes her sunglasses to the top of her head, nose scrunching as she glances around the marina. “You work here?”
“Yes,” I answer shortly.
Her family is busy making themselves comfortable on the yacht, but Gus is looking this way. I watch him swipe a hand through his shaggy blond hair, a resigned smile appearing on his face before he turns to fuel the rentals that were recently returned.
I’m a dick for liking that she approached me and not him.
“Still an asshole, huh?” she asks.
Her blue eyes are exploring the ink on my left arm, specifically the script on the inside of my wrist. I resist the urge to rub at the spot. Whenever people stare there, I’m tempted to cover it. Which leads to guilt, then grief, followed by self-loathing.
“What do you want, Wren?”
A small smile plays across her lips, like she finds my short fuse amusing rather than the warning most people take it as.
“Want? Nothing. Just being friendly.” She glances at Wade, who’s doing a shitty job pretending he’s not eavesdropping on our conversation.
Takes a step to the left, holding out a palm toward him. “Hi. I’m Wren.”
Her elbow brushes against my forearm as they shake hands. I fight the impulse to scrub at that spot too.
“Wade,” he says eagerly. “We sort of met last night.”
“I remember,” Wren replies sweetly. She plays with the end of her ponytail, twirling the mixed strands around one finger as she aims a pleasant, practiced smile Wade’s way.
If Wade wasn’t a buddy, I’d blurt out the, Bullshit, I’m dying to say. But Wade is lapping up the attention, the lie, adjusting his polo so he has an excuse to flex.
She’s flirting with him to irritate me, I think, and I’m pissed it’s working.
I jerk my chin toward the idling yacht. “They might leave without you.”
Wren smiles ruefully. “Tried that already. They waited while I got ready. This”—she waves toward the water—“was not my idea. So far, summer here has sucked.”
I’m certain Wren Kensington and I have two very different definitions of life sucking. It’s tough to summon any sympathy for someone who sees spending the day sunning on a three-million-dollar yacht as a hardship.
“If you’re free tomorrow night, you should come by our party,” Wade suggests. “We all have to work the Fourth, so we’re celebrating early. Address is 53 Maple.”
I scowl, then quickly school my expression. My guess is, if she thinks I don’t want her to show up, Wren will be much more likely to.
“Tomorrow, 53 Maple,” Wren repeats. “Yeah, maybe.”
“Wren!” A blonde woman is leaning over the railing of the yacht, waving. “Let’s go!”
Based on the close resemblance between them, I’m certain it’s her mother.
Wren steps back, meeting my gaze as she executes a crisp salute. “See ya, Cap.”
Despite my best effort to remain expressionless, one corner of my mouth curves up. “Wear a life jacket.”
“Because I beat you to shore?” She spins and skips away before I can reply that it was a tie.
“Think she’ll show?” Wade wonders, staring after Wren with goddamn hearts reflected in his eyes.
I sigh heavily, shaking my head. “Doubt it. You good here? I gotta go finish the dock repair.”
“Yeah, I’m good.”
I nod, then head for the ramp.
I don’t think Wren will show.
But I do think there’s a small part of me that wants her to.