13. Tess #2
Camden adjusted his hands and changed the angle. No complaint about his palms. No comment about the weight. No attempt to tell her he knew better because he had spent his life moving defenders twice her size.
He just listened.
Tess stepped backward in front of the rack, clearing a tackle box with her foot before the caster could catch it. The freezer door stood open behind her, leaking a strip of colder air across the floor.
“Bring it toward me.”
Camden shoved.
The rack rolled another foot, then jammed again when the rear wheel struck a raised board.
“Left caster,” he said.
“I’ve got it. Keep pressure on.”
Tess bent, seized the lower frame, and tugged it sideways while Camden maintained the push. The wheel climbed the ridge with a harsh scrape, and the whole rack lurched forward.
“Easy.”
Camden stopped it before it could slam into her.
For one second they stood on opposite sides of the metal, both soaked, both gripping the same shaking rack while the storm hammered the building around them.
Weeks ago, he would have treated help like leverage. Every favor came attached to some invisible receipt: distance traveled, hands torn open, pride swallowed. Now he only glanced toward the freezer.
“Straight in?”
“Yes.”
He shifted behind the rack and drove it forward again.
Tess backed into the freezer, guiding the front edge clear of the jamb. The casters protested across the threshold, but Camden kept the frame moving until the lead bins were safely inside.
Camden released the rack and turned back toward Tess. Rain pounded the roof hard enough to drown the freezer motor, while water tracked from their clothes across the floor. Tess shoved the freezer door shut and glanced toward the front windows, where the displays trembled against the glass.
“What’s next?” Camden asked.
“Front windows. We clear everything away from—”
The wind swallowed the rest of the sentence.
The bait shack lurched around them. The front door bowed inward with a crack from the frame, and a blade of rain burst through the widening seam. One hinge screamed against the wood as the panel kicked back, then slammed against the jamb and buckled again.
“If that panel goes, the shack goes with it.”
Camden crossed the room before she finished the sentence. He caught the door with both hands, shoved it toward the frame, then drove his shoulder into the center of the panel when the wind pushed back. His boots skidded across the floor before he braced himself beside the entrance.
“Get the bolt,” he said.
Tess moved at once. The iron drop-bolt ran down the inside edge of the door, its handle spotted with rust from years of salt air. She wrapped both hands around it and pulled down, but the metal scraped across the floor plate and stopped short of the slot.
“It’s not lined up.”
“Tell me which way.”
“Top needs to come toward you.”
Camden drove his shoulder higher. The door groaned under the pressure, and the seam narrowed enough to cut the spray from a sheet to a mist. Tess tried the bolt again. Metal rasped against metal, then jammed before the tip could seat.
“Hold it there.”
“I’ve got it.”
The shack shuddered again. A row of lures slid from a display and scattered across the floor, but Tess kept both hands on the bolt. Camden’s shirt clung to his back, and rainwater ran from his hair onto his face while he stayed pressed against the door.
Weeks ago, he would have tried to take over. He would have shoved her behind him, called somebody else, found a way to turn the emergency into his responsibility and her problem to survive. Now he held the wood where she needed it and waited for her instruction.
“More at the top,” she said. “Not much.”
Camden adjusted his shoulder again, and the bolt slipped lower before catching. Tess stopped before it could wedge crooked. She lifted it back, shifted the handle toward the frame, and tried again as the wind struck the outside wall with another boom.
“Now,” he said. “Drive it.”
She put both hands over the handle and forced it down.
The first stretch fought her. Rust ground inside the guide, and the misaligned door pulled the bolt toward the edge of the slot. Tess reset her grip, planted one foot against the floorboard seam, and pushed again while Camden kept the panel square.
The metal cylinder scraped once, then dropped into place with a low clang beneath her hands.
“It’s in.”
Camden stayed against the door while Tess tested the handle, pulling up once. The bolt did not move. Another gust struck the shack, but the panel held against the frame instead of kicking inward.
“You sure it caught?” Camden asked.
“It caught.” Tess looked at his hand braced near the damaged edge where the wood flexed under each hit. “Move away from the seam.”
He glanced down but kept his shoulder in place.
“Camden.”
“I’m making sure—”
“The bolt is carrying it now. Get your hand off that frame before the next gust traps it.”
That got him moving. Camden eased his weight back and stepped clear, keeping his eyes on the door while Tess stayed crouched beside the lock. The wind battered the outside wall again, testing the panel without breaking the seal.
The bolt held through the next gust.
She waited long enough to make sure the metal did not jump free, then pushed herself upright. Water pooled across the floor in shallow streaks, carrying grit from their boots toward the front counter. Camden stood a few steps away, watching the panel as it shuddered inside the frame.
“Check your hand.”
He glanced down. “It’s fine. Door held.”
His palm was streaked with dirt and old cuts from the boatyard, but the fresh problem was higher up. A raw rope burn crossed his forearm where the dock line had caught him earlier, the skin bright against the rainwater running from his sleeve.
Tess pointed at it. “That is not fine.”
“It’s not worth stopping for.”
Before she could answer, Camden wiped the water from his face and dug into his pocket. The rental keys rattled in his grip when he pulled them out.
Tess stared at them. “Why do you have those out?”
Camden turned toward the rear exit.
For a second, she thought he meant to check the vehicle or move it farther from the flooding yard. Then he crossed the room, shoulders hunched against the chill that had followed them inside, and reached the narrow aisle leading to the back door.
“Perimeter held,” he said. “I’m heading for the Sandpiper. Give me until dawn, and I’ll come pull this yard debris out of the mud.”
Tess stopped beside the counter, one hand still resting against the edge. “You’re not serious.”
He looked back at her. Water dripped from his hair to soak his collar. “Front entrance is secure. Canvas is tied down. Sully has the fuel side.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Camden closed his fingers around the keys. “I can make the drive.”
Outside, another gust battered the rear wall hard enough to rattle the shelves. A bin shifted across the counter, and Tess pushed it back before it could slide to the floor.
“Route 1 is already taking water,” she said. “The surge is coming over the medians.”
“I’ll keep the hazards on.”
“You’ll hydroplane.”
“I’ll stay in first gear.”
“Into what? A canal?”
He visibly held back, but he did not turn the argument into a challenge. He looked at the rear door instead, then back at her.
“Tess, I’m not using a weather emergency to trespass on your living space.”
The words stopped her harder than the storm had.