Chapter 10 Lili
Ten
Lili
“Oh no,” I whisper, skidding my bike to a stop beside Barrett Pier, my stomach dropping faster than my kickstand. So this
is how my first official day volunteering is going to start.
I’d foolishly thought Wren wanted me to meet him here so I could pass out flyers or sell T-shirts or something. I forgot that
McCleave’s does their boat tours on Saturdays and Tuesdays. He can’t possibly think I’m getting back on that boat again, can he?
“And the Tourist Girl finally arrives.”
Wren’s voice—dry as driftwood—draws my attention to him wheeling around the back of a gray pickup truck.
“I’m not late,” I say, locking my bike and joining him. “So you can’t say ‘finally’ like that.”
“What is it with you and arguing with everything I say?”
“I’ll stop arguing when you start being right.”
I catch the briefest tug at the corner of his mouth.
“Want to tell me why I’m here, since we both know you’re not mean enough to put me back on that boat?”
“No boat rides for you today,” he agrees, and I deeply dislike the way he says today.
“Then I’m here to . . . ?”
“Help.” He starts down the pier.
“Right, but how exactly? And when are we going to talk about Kezia Gardner?”
His arms flex as he grips his wheels to stop them. “Do you always ask this many questions?”
“All you said was to meet you here. I think I’m owed a few answers.”
“Okay,” he says, bending to pick up a crumpled mermaid tour flyer. “Then you can start by picking up the stuff you guys leave
everywhere.”
I scoff. “I have never left trash behind in my life.”
He glances up, like he’s weighing the truth of that statement. “What, do you want a cookie?”
“I wouldn’t say no to one.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
His tone is easy, almost teasing, and something about it makes my pulse tick up a notch.
By the time we reach the boat, I’ve nearly convinced myself this day might not be so bad. Then he tosses me a bottle of SPF
and a pair of ancient-looking motion sickness wristbands.
“Um, in no world is this better than a cookie,” I say.
“They’re for after the tour,” he says. “Cleaning out the boat. Thought you might need them. Even docked.”
Oh.
I look down at the wristbands again, my grip loosening slightly.
They’re fraying at the edges, the once-black fabric now faded to charcoal, but they suddenly feel less like a joke and more like .
. . a gesture. Kindness, maybe, if you squint hard enough.
It would’ve been kinder not to make me get on the boat at all, of course, but it’s better than being on plunger duty.
Before I can react, his phone buzzes and whatever he sees on the screen hardens his expression.
“Can you head back to the truck and wait for Tate?” He hands me a set of keys. “The sign for the tour is in the back. Just
unlock it for him and he’ll set it up.”
“Pick up trash and wait by a truck.” I sigh somewhat dramatically. “How did you ever live without my immeasurable help?”
He huffs out a reluctant laugh. “Oh, don’t worry. You’ll be doing a lot more than that today.”
Good, I think, as I stroll back to the parking lot, though I think he was trying to rattle me. That might have worked before he
gave these worn wrist bands to me, but after? Not so much.
The truck’s tailgate groans as I lower it and decide I don’t need to wait to lift out a single sign. I mean, how heavy can
it be?
The answer is very. The steel pole weighs a ton, but I manage. The large, solid-wood sign is another story. I’m about to psych
myself up for a third try when a pair of slim, tanned hands grips the opposite corner.
“Here, let me help,” the girl I instantly recognize as the mermaid from McCleave’s tour says, crouching down beside me. “On
three?”
We both groan under the weight, but together, we wrestle the sign into place, securing it onto the pole’s rolling base.
“Thanks,” I say, shielding my eyes from the sun. “Kind of my first day, and I may have overestimated my own strength.”
“It’s not you,” she says, shaking out her hands to force the feeling back the same way I am. “Leon from Salt & Timber Signworks made it last year to withstand a hurricane. I’ve never been able to lift it by myself.”
“Oh, good. I don’t feel so bad now.”
She keeps smiling. “It’s Lili, right?”
I nod. “And you’re the mermaid. I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”
“Eryn,” she says.
“Eryn! Pop the trunk!”
Tate’s voice cuts through the lot, and without looking, Eryn hits a button on her key fob. A little red compact car beeps
in response.
“I’m so glad Wren brought you today.” Her smile turns shy as she shifts her feet, the sunlight catching the pearlescent shimmer
dusted over her skin. “I thought for sure he’d keep you cooped up in the back room hunched over a desk all day. I mean, who
would choose that over this?” She stares out over the choppy water.
She clearly doesn’t share my reservations about boats bobbing like corks on the waves. She spots Wren on the boat and raises
a hand in greeting.
He hesitates before lifting his own in response.
Behind her, Tate straightens from the trunk. “Okay, we’ve got your tail, your towel, your neoprene socks, your conditioner.
And . . . yep, all set.” He notices me for the first time, grinning around a Twizzler that’s hanging from his mouth. “Oh hey,
Tourist Girl.”
“What did you call her?” Eryn frowns, brushing back a wisp of her black hair that’s escaped from the messy bun on her head.
“It’s a Wren thing,” I say quickly. “Apparently, it’s easier than using people’s names.” The nickname itself doesn’t bother me, not really. It’s the way he sometimes says it, like I don’t belong here, that feels unfair.
Tate shrugs. “Yeah, well, it’s what you are, isn’t it?”
“Tate,” Eryn says, her voice weary but laced with quiet authority.
“What?” His grin is unrepentant. “She wanted to know.”
“I really didn’t,” I mutter, shaking my head.
Eryn moves to do her own scan of the trunk, her fingers brushing over the intricate shell crown I spot nestled beside the
mermaid tail. “Ignore him.”
“Oh, I plan to.”
She laughs. “Good. Because I’m tired of being outnumbered.”
“Well, I know when I’m not wanted,” Tate quips, his voice rising over the sound of the waves lapping at the dock. “Text me
if you need anything or when you’re back on dry land.”
As he heads down the dock, Wren watches him, but when Tate hops aboard, Wren says something that makes Tate’s entire body
stiffen. He replies with a sharp gesture, Twizzlers still clutched in one hand. Then, after a beat, he tosses the candy onto
a bench and shakes his head, clearly exasperated.
The conversation ends abruptly. Wren exhales, shoulders rising then dropping, as if shaking something off before wheeling
toward the other end of the boat.
Tate watches him, his jaw set. A few seconds pass before he moves—slowly, almost reluctantly—into the captain’s chair.
They don’t speak after that.
I glance at Eryn, expecting some reaction, but she’s still rummaging through her trunk, oblivious to whatever just went down.
She straightens a second later, holding a phone in her hand that has a screen so cracked I’d be shocked if it still works.
“One sec,” she tells me, reaching back into her car and pulling out another phone, this one light blue with a golden croissant
sticker on the back. She taps the screen and lifts it to her ear.
On the boat, Wren answers his own phone at the same time.
“Hey, babe, can you let Tate know he dropped his phone in my trunk?”
Babe?
I glance between them, an odd realization hitting me. She’s his girlfriend. I don’t know why I hadn’t considered the possibility
before. Maybe because he’s kind of on the grumpy side, though I guess not with her. So much for the banter between him and
me that I thought I’d picked up on earlier. It’s not like it had been much, just a hint. And a wildly impractical one at that.
This is better, I tell myself. I don’t even have to let my mind ever start going there.
“Okayyy,” she says, drawing out the word. “I’ll tell her.” A pause. “Are you sure you don’t just want me to—? Right, yeah.
Sure, later.” She flicks her eyes to me and kind of shifts away, voice lowering. “Actually I can’t tonight. I have to be at
the café super early, but whatever it is, we can just talk later.” There’s a stretch of silence. “I will, ’kay, bye.”
She tosses the phone into her bag before turning back to me. “Sorry about that.”
I shrug off her apology. “Did you say café?”
Eryn’s expression shifts, a spark of excitement lighting up her eyes. “It’s my other job, my main job. I’m an assistant baker
over at the Petticoat Café. I waitress some too.”
“I passed by that place my first day here. There was something that smelled so good I was halfway across the street before I even noticed. Maybe a cinnamon roll?”
“That’s my recipe! They’re called morning buns.” She points back at her car. “Want to try one? I always bring a couple for
the guys, but Tate can miss out today.”
The second she opens the door, I catch the scent—warm, buttery vanilla with a hint of cinnamon. It’s better than I remembered.
She grabs a box from the backseat, then spins to reveal pastries that look like the love child of a croissant and a cinnamon
roll—golden, sugar-crusted spirals dripping with ooey-gooey vanilla icing. My eyes widen on instinct.
I tear off a piece of one and pop it into my mouth. The crisp, caramelized edges give way to soft, flaky layers, and the sugar
practically melts on my tongue. I set a hand on the car door to steady myself.
Eryn laughs. “First time, huh? Yeah, they tend to have that effect on people.”
I tear off another piece, then another, barely chewing before going in for more. “These are amazing.”
“Thanks.” She beams. “Oh, I almost forgot. Would you mind running Tate’s phone down to the boat? I need to start getting ready.”
“Sure.” I take the cracked phone from her. “Need help with anything else?”
“Thanks, but I’ve got it down.” She nods toward the boat, where the guys are still barely interacting. “You know, I could
talk to Wren about dropping the ‘Tourist Girl’ nickname if it really bothers you.”
I shake my head quickly. “No, I’m good. He’ll come around once he gets to know me.”
She seems to like that answer. “I’m sure that’s true. I’m really glad he accepted your offer. I think it’ll be good for him
to have somebody around who’s into all the history stuff he loves. I’ve tried, but I just don’t have it in me. And Tate, well,
I don’t think he’s actually tried.”
We both laugh.
“Well,” she says, hesitating for half a second before leaning in for a quick hug. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of each other.
Maybe we can even hang out sometime?”
I exhale slightly, relieved that I hadn’t misread the friendship signs. “I’d like that.”
She drives off as I head down to the boat. Tate is still in his captain’s chair, watching Wren but not saying anything.
Something is definitely going on there, but as curious as I am, I don’t know either of them well enough to ask. Instead, I
lift up Tate’s cell as I approach.
“I can now officially add phone delivery to my list of duties for the day.” I pass it up to Wren, who tosses it to Tate without
a word.
“Thanks,” he says, then considers me as though a thought just occurred to him. “You got a camera on your phone?”
“Of course. I like my clothes to be from another time, not my phone. Why?”
“Then that’s what you’re doing today,” he says matter-of-factly. “Taking pictures of the tour guests interacting with the
mermaid for the website.” His tone tightens slightly, jaw flexing before he adds, “We’re making some changes.”
Behind him, Tate stiffens.
I eye them both, curiosity flaring. “I can do that.”
“Make sure Tate’s in plenty of the shots,” Wren says, his voice deceptively even. “And get some before we reach Eryn.”
“Before? Where exactly do you want me to get them?” I scan the shoreline, mentally retracing the route Goldie and I took on
our tour. My head starts to spin. We covered so much ground. Does he actually expect me to—what—chase the boat? “How many
pictures are we talking here?” I ask, attempting to mask my anxiety at the sight of the waist-high, spindly beach grass that
promises to shred my bare legs.
“Every few minutes is fine.” His voice carries just enough challenge that I can’t ignore it, even as I feel Tate watching
me.
I take a step closer, lowering my voice so it’s just between us. “Why do I feel like I’m being punished for something I didn’t
even do?”
Wren flinches—his eyes shift with a hint of realization, as if the thought hadn’t crossed his mind until now. He tightens
his grip on the railing, then exhales slowly, the tension in his shoulders still there but easing now. “I just need the photos.
Can you do it or not?”
Deciding that now isn’t the time to push back, I nod. “Not a problem. I take listing photos for my mom’s house flips. I’m
good. In fact, if you’d told me that you wanted pictures today, not only would I have not worn this romper, but I’d have brought
my DSLR camera and offered to edit the photos too.”
There’s another slight crack in his armor, and I can see it for just a second—maybe a flicker of approval or maybe just a shift in how he sees me. “Good, huh?” he says, a bit more dry than usual.
“Really good. So good that you won’t have a shred of doubt left about my capabilities.”
He stares at me, his expression giving nothing away. “All right then. Let’s see what you’ve got.”