48. Sloane
T he midday sun beats down on me as I cross the pothole-riddled parking lot to our registration booth—a wooden utility shed that Gigi dressed up with turquoise paint and a thatched roof to serve as the Sea Witch’s welcome post leading to our three boat slips.
Skye’s angelic face is framed within the open window as she sucks back her daily smoothie while waiting for guests to arrive.
An oscillating fan flutters strands of her hair but her complexion glows.
We call it the Sweat Shack for a reason.
A small plug-in air-conditioning unit on the wall above provides some relief, but it’s unreliable and, in the height of the season, weak against the humidity.
All in all, this is a tedious job—confirming passenger details and liability waivers—but someone has to do it, and God love Skye for being the willing victim most days.
“Hello, sunshine. Who do I have today?” I only skimmed the schedule.
She pauses mid slurp. “Ryan Tatum. Party of six.”
“Ryan Tatum,” I echo. “I hope they aren’t a bunch of loud, obnoxious bros. I’m in no mood.”
“Maybe you aren’t, but you’re gonna put them in the mood in that .” Skye eyeballs the red string bikini I threw on under my floral Hawaiian shirt—the official Sea Witch captain’s uniform, along with a matching wide-brim hat that Frank refuses to wear.
“Too skimpy?” It’s inevitable that I have at least one admirer on a cruise.
The outfit inspires some weird fetishes, and the more these people drink, the bolder they get about sharing.
Drunk Uncle Phil at Thanksgiving dinner’s got nothing on his brother, Drunk Uncle Ned, during a daytime booze cruise.
Normally, I stick to modest two-piece suits, but they’re all in the hamper, and I figured my shirt is long enough to hide the thong bottom so my ass isn’t hanging out.
Besides, it makes me feel good in my skin, and my ego could use a pick-me-up after Ronan’s blow-off, which I can’t seem to shake weeks later.
This is why I don’t do one-night stands. Or one- day stands, as it was.
“Just right, I say. But make sure you lube up.” She waggles her eyebrows in a cartoonish fashion and then tosses me a full can of sunscreen, drawing my chuckle.
“Oh! Almost forgot. A guy came by today. Where is that …” She spins on her stool, searching the cramped desk.
“What for?”
“He was asking about the captain’s job. Seemed nice. Flirty.”
Not surprising that he’d flirt with Skye. “Cute?”
“Yeah! In, like, a beefy black Tom Holland sort of way.”
I’m frowning at the unusual mental picture that draws when she declares, “Aha!” and thrusts a paper into my hand.
Excitement flickers at the prospect of a replacement for AJ. “Devon McCloud,” I read aloud. “Wait, why does that name sound so familiar?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen him around,” Skye says.
“Devon McCloud.” I skim the résumé. When I see the last line, it clicks. “You’ve got to be kidding me. ”
“Why? What’s wrong with him?”
“Well, for one, he’s a friend of Cody’s.
” Not close, but one, nonetheless. Enough that the name means something.
“This guy worked at Neptune’s one summer.
” The ice cream shop has served Mermaid Beach for decades.
“He got into it with the owner. So he quit and as a parting gift, he flipped the main power breaker off at closing time and opened all the freezer doors. The owner came in the next day to his entire inventory melted. On July 4 weekend.”
“Ouch.” Skye’s face pinches. “That’s criminal.”
“Can you believe he actually included them as a reference?” He probably figured I wouldn’t go back five summers to check. “See? This is what I’m left with. Potheads and ice cream murderers.” I crumple the résumé into a ball and aim for the trash basket in the corner, my hope deflated.
“Have no fear. The next one will be a dream come true. I can feel it in my bones!” Skye hollers after me as I trot down the flight of wooden stairs to the dock. It jiggles beneath my steps as I trudge toward Tiki One , already wishing the next four hours over.
Jeremy is backing out of his slip, his group of bikini-clad partygoers chair-bobbing to the music playing over their speaker. Meanwhile, Tiki Three sits idle in its space, losing us money every day it’s not open for reservations.
“Ahoy, Captain Sloane!” Jeremy hollers from his driver’s seat.
I feel his effervescent mood from here. I wave back, but his rapt focus is already on navigating into the steady flow of traffic.
Someone once called Mermaid Beach’s harbor waterfront the Watery Wild West, and I can’t argue with them about that.
During high season, the channel is teeming from dawn till dusk, with everything from skilled sailors in their yachts to inexperienced boaters renting pontoons.
We’ve had more than one bump-and-nudge over the years.
The fishing charter next to us, Eddie’s, lost a boat and half their dock when a group from Louisiana got confused by their throttle and crashed.
My sandaled feet hit the floor of the tiki boat with a soft thud.
A curly blond mop of hair pops up over the ice trough. “Hey, boss.”
“Hey, Will.” I toss my bag onto the captain’s seat and push aside any lingering resentment. “How we lookin’?”
“Uh, let’s see … You’re gassed up, engine’s purring.
You’ve got Solo cups, lots of ice, bottle opener, straws, trash bags …
” He rhymes off the inventory list, counting down items on his fingers.
“Yup, that’s it. You’re good to go.” He caps it off with a grin, his shirtless torso tan and muscular.
But all my guys are in shape—minus Rolland.
Lugging equipment in ninety-degree humid heat all summer along will do that to you whether you want it or not.
“Perfect.”
“Even crammed an extra bag in there.” Will slaps the top of the Yeti cooler.
“It’s a hot day, so we’ll probably need it.” I chug a mouthful of water, acutely aware of his bright gaze dancing over my bikini. While I’m used to my staff ogling me when my back is to them, they’re not usually so overt about it. Maybe this scant outfit was a bad choice. Oh well, too late now.
“Need anything else? ’Cause Frank wants me back at the compound to do repairs on the umbrellas.”
A never-ending task. “You’re good to go.”
“’Kay, see ya later, boss.”
“Actually—” I blurt, then falter. “You like working at Sea Witch, don’t you?”
He shrugs. “Yeah, sure. I mean, it’s always a good time. Love the guys. You’re awesome.” He flashes a crooked smile. “Why?”
So innocent, so nonchalant, like he didn’t try to stab me in the back .
“No reason.” Frank is right. I need to stop taking this whole thing so personally and be thankful I still have a team, though threadbare. “Better get out there before Frank calls.”
“Yikes. See you on the other end.” He skitters away, grabbing his cast-off T-shirt on the way.
I test the engine to confirm no issues and then spend a few minutes double-checking supplies and setting up the speaker for music until the sound of approaching steps and laughter draws my focus to the incoming group.
It’s not a bunch of guys after all, but three couples. That’s ideal. They’ll be too busy with each other to bother me. A hulking blond in a white tank top is lugging a case of beer in his arms. Hey, wait—he looks like Ronan’s mediocre friend?—
Oh shit .
It is Ronan’s mediocre friend. Which probably means …
My stomach plummets to my sandals as the sleek form bringing up the rear of the line comes into full view, his soft gray T-shirt clinging to that perfect body. Intense green eyes hide behind signature aviators, his stony face half-hidden by a baseball cap.
I haven’t seen Ronan since we had sex against my kitchen wall two weeks and one day ago—almost to the hour. I haven’t heard a single peep from him. And now he shows up here, for a day cruise? Potentially with another woman ?
I should throw my water bottle at his head. A part of me itches to.
And yet my pulse races in his presence.
A short brunette in a fuchsia bathing suit leads the pack. “Hi, I’m Ryan. You must be Sloane?”
“Uh …” I falter. Do they know what happened between Ronan and their captain? Is this why they booked me?
No, Skye gave her my name , I remind myself.
They’re all staring at me as I gape like a beached fish. Possibly wondering if they’re putting their afternoon and their lives in the hands of an idiot .
I clear my voice, doing my best to draw some semblance of confidence. “Captain Sloane for the next four hours.”
“Hottest captain ever .” Big dumb blond—what was his name again?—declares, peering over his sunglasses at my bikini top, or likely, at my chest. Did Ronan tell him what happened?
“Connor.” Ryan elbows him in his rib cage. “My brother thinks he’s charming. He doesn’t realize he’s a pig-slut.”
“A pig-slut. Hmm.” He mock frowns. “Did you learn that at your fancy MBA school?”
“No, I learned it while living with you,” she quips without missing a beat.
“You didn’t complain when you were paying practically nothing in rent for all those years.”
“Dad gave you your down payment.” She smiles sweetly up at him. “And, believe me, I did.”
“Is Ronan a pig-slut too?” His responding grin is broad and smug.
Even under the harsh sun, her cheeks redden.
“All right, children,” the tall preppy man in the button-down swordfish-print shirt on her left scolds playfully. He’s giving off major boyfriend vibes.
But what was that sly dig about Ronan?
Everyone’s standing around. Might as well get this awkward show on the road.
Or water. I gesture toward the tiki. “Come aboard and get settled in. We’ll go over a few safety rules and then we can get this party started.
There’s ice and supplies for your drinks.
” Which it appears they’ve brought a lot of.