Chapter 2 #3
“I don’t know yet. She’s got eighteen million views on that viral clip, but something about it doesn’t sit right.”
Bodhi raises an eyebrow. “You’ve watched it?”
“I did my research.” I don’t mention that I watched it three times last night, trying to figure out what was wrong with the picture. The woman on that video—screaming, entitled, melting down over a coffee order—doesn’t match the woman I met this morning. Not even close.
“Right.” He doesn’t push it.
“What do you want to do?” I ask. “I can kick her off the tour, forbid anyone at the marina from talking to her.”
Bodhi considers it. “No,” he says after a drawn out beat. “If she can’t book tours with us, she’ll book with Cordelia, which means Malcolm controls the narrative. Let’s keep her close. If she’s going to dig into the treasure story, I’d rather know what she finds.”
His speculative tone has all of my warning bells ringing. I scowl at him. “Don’t tell me you think there’s actually a treasure somewhere on the north shore for her to find.”
“Fuck, no.” He laughs, but it’s a hollow sound. “But Malcolm does. If we push her away, we lose any chance to control the story.”
I don’t like it. Not one bit. “So you want me to babysit a reporter for the next few days?”
“I want you to keep an eye on her. Find out what she’s really after. And if she starts digging into family business...” He doesn’t finish the sentence, but I know what he means. The Havens have skeletons in their closet—some literal, some figurative. We don’t need an outsider poking around.
“And if I say I don’t want to?”
“You won’t because you’re the best person to keep her out of trouble. You know this island better than anyone.” He pauses, and a smile flickers at the corner of his mouth. “Besides, you’re the one who caught her.”
“That’s not—” I stop myself. The whole town already thinks I’m half in love with the woman because I went into the harbor after her suitcase, and protesting will only fuel the rumor mill. “Fine. But I’m not going to be her tour guide every day.”
“Just keep her close enough that we know what she’s up to. And keep her away from anything that might hurt us. Malcolm didn’t send some nobody. She’s got a reputation.”
“Eighteen million views,” I mutter.
“Exactly.” Bodhi picks up his pen again and returns his attention to the spreadsheet on his computer. “She knows how to make people watch.”
I stand, the chair scraping against the floor. “I’ll handle it.”
“I know it.” He meets my eyes again, and for a moment I see the exhaustion in his face.
The weight of running the family businesses, of keeping the peace between siblings who all want different things, of maintaining the careful balance with the Merricks that could tip at any moment. “Are the nightmares getting worse?”
The question catches me off guard. I haven’t told anyone about the nightmares, not in detail. But Bodhi’s always been able to read me better than anyone.
“They’re manageable.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
I shrug, uncomfortable. “They come and go. Same as always.”
He studies me for a long moment. “You could stay here. We’ve got room.”
“I’m fine on the boat.”
“You always say that.”
“I always mean it.”
He shakes his head, but doesn’t keep pushing. On that, at least, but he does take another tack: “Come to family dinner Sunday. Dad wants you here..”
I grunt something noncommittal and head for the door.
“Dean.” His voice stops me. “If you don’t come, Mimi will stomp down to the marina in those ridiculous Doc Martens and kick your ass all the way back here. You know she will.”
I wave a hand back at him in acknowledgment and step outside.
He’s right. I’ve been on the receiving end of Mimi’s ass-kickings enough times to know he’s right.
And still I don’t know if I’ll come.
I roll my shoulders. They always feel tight after a conversation veers too close to things I’d rather not examine.
The farm stretches out before me, green and alive and steady. Somewhere, Hazel is laughing. Dot bleats from her pen. Noodle patrols his territory, honking at anyone who gets too close.
Everything in its place.
Except me.
I check my watch. It’s almost noon. I have two hours before I have to play tour guide for a woman who makes my instincts scream danger, and I intend to spend every minute of them on the water, where things make sense.
I whistle for Captain, who’s terrorizing the chickens, and head for my truck.
The bird swoops down and lands on my shoulder with a squawk. “Fuck off, feather duster,” he says cheerfully.
“Knew I’d regret saying that.”
“Abort, abort!” he replies.
“Wish I could,” I mutter as I climb into my truck.
The drive back to the marina is quiet. Captain settles on the dashboard, preening his feathers and occasionally muttering obscenities under his breath.
I focus on the road, but my mind keeps circling back to the sharp intelligence behind Scarlett Crawford’s blue eyes, and the TV-ready smile that looked as hollow as she felt when I caught her.
I don’t trust her.
Not for a second.
But I’m also not sure I trust myself around her, and that’s a problem I haven’t had in a long time.