Unmoored: How to Fail at Hating the Boss (Songbird Ridge: A Year in the Life #7)

Chapter 1

One

Quincy

“Whoa. Ms. Travers?”

“Hi Levi,” I say to my former student. “Yes, it’s me. Getting coffee on a Tuesday.”

His face relaxes a little, but he still seems perplexed, which I put down to the fact that I’m not hastily scrawling out a timeline of the U.S.

’s involvement in World War II for the seventeenth time to make sure everyone gets it.

Or maybe it’s how casually I’m dressed today: white shorts, fitted shirt, flip-flops and my unstyled summer hair tied up in a messy topknot.

One of the many things I won’t do in summertime in North Carolina is face off against the humidity with my weapon of choice—the okayest hair straightener I can afford on a teacher’s salary.

“You going to the lake or something?” Levi asks.

“In a word, yes,” I say.

I know that 16-year-old Levi Larson’s definition of “going to the lake” involves wave-running, water skiing, blasting music from speakers on pontoon boats, and sneaking beers from his dad’s garage fridge.

My version of “going to the lake” is one of two things: snagging an invitation to someone’s second house on the shoreline, or getting a job at the marina.

Today, I fall into the second category, thanks to my first summer job turning out to be a dud.

I had been hired to drive the local ice cream truck, a job I was really looking forward to.

But due to some last minute staff changes, I was instead forced to work at the ice cream factory.

You might think that sounds like a dream summer job, but the whole point of me applying was to be able to work somewhat outdoors, for the fun factor.

That lasted less than a month, until I heard about an opening at the marina, which offered the chance for fun and challenging work outdoors.

“Wow,” Levi says, looking surprised. “So weird seeing you outside of school.”

Cocking my head, I say with a grin, “Well, I got a hall pass from the crypt keeper, but if I’m not back by midnight, I have to teach summer school.”

Levi’s stare is mixed with the wonder of a kid seeing a zoo animal outside of their natural habitat.

“That was a joke,” I say.

“Oh! Sorry,” he says, shaking his head and laughing that goofy, teenage boy laugh. “You’re the second teacher I’ve made coffee for this morning, and it’s throwing me off my game.”

An impatient caffeine addict behind me in line comments, “Hasn’t actually made that coffee yet in this particular game.”

I don’t know if the person behind me in line meant for Levi to hear that or just me. He has the kind of voice that carries whether he wants it to or not. Either way, poor Levi gets spooked by it and starts busily working on my drink order.

I glance over my shoulder, expecting to see someone I know, and preparing to give them a good-natured scolding for scaring the child barista.

At eye level behind me is not a familiar face.

Actually, the first thing I see is not a face at all, but a partially visible tattooed upper chest. A pair of oversized pectoral muscles is set off by a trio of unfastened buttons in a slim-fitting white polo.

Glinting against the black ink and bronzed skin is a small St. Nicholas pendant hanging from a thin gold chain.

My gaze travels slowly upward and takes in the corded neck, a chin speckled with dark scruff, an angled jaw, hair cut short, but thick and slightly wavy.

Cheekbones you could slice meat on. And then…

the eyes. Piercing. Challenging, almost.

Definitely not a local.

“He…he’s working on it,” I say, internally wincing at my attempt and failure to sound assertive. “And that’s not how we talk to people around here. Have a little patience.”

The stranger’s eyes narrow, and that’s when I notice the lines there.

My granddad had the same squint, same type of creases, after a lifetime of fishing without seeing the need for sunglasses or skin care.

That man was all hard edges, both in appearance and in personality.

This guy, with his arms folded over his chest, gives me the same vibe.

Or maybe I’m doing that thing where I think about something else, so I don’t have to deal with how attracted I am to someone in the moment. A mental cold shower.

I straighten my spine to emphasize to this six-foot-four stranger that I’m not intimidated by him.

The man looks past me. “Levi? Sorry. Didn’t mean to offend.”

I hear Levi reply, “You’re good,” and if he says more, it’s drowned out by the hissing of the espresso machine.

A few things impress me about this. He says Levi’s name like he just now learned it and is committing it to memory, thanks to overhearing me address the barista by name. Secondly, the “sorry” has thrown me. It’s genuine.

I can’t help but look him up and down and notice this man is wearing white twill shorts, same as me.

Same as what the marina owner, Captain Mack, told me to wear when I report to work today.

Probably a coincidence. Lots of people — fancy people in particular — wear pressed white shorts in summer.

Mine are quite a bit shorter than his, of course.

Hm. I would pay good money to see those thighs in a pair of short-shorts.

I bet he’s got a great butt, too. You don’t get definition like that and leave your glutes behind. Ha.

“Where’re you from?” I ask, changing my tone to friendly and welcoming. We in Songbird Ridge are well trained on what to do when we meet tourists. Hikers, campers, snow skiers, festival goers, antique shoppers, artists—we get all kinds.

The stony look in his eyes changes to something close to amusement. “I grew up here.”

No way.

“Really? I’ve never seen you before,” I answer, dripping with skepticism. “Songbird Ridge High School, Class of 2010. When’d you graduate?”

I let my gaze wander over this man’s stature and notice his forearms are tatted up as well, with looping nautical ropes meandering around and over his tanned ridges. These were done years ago. Maybe even decades.

“Oh, you’ve seen me. Probably never noticed me.” The accent lines up; he certainly sounds local.

“What’s the difference?” I ask.

“I know you’re Quincy Travers, of the Buzzard Mountain Traverses.”

Goosebumps form along my bare forearms. He’s right on the money.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

He’s certainly local if he knows these facts about my family.

But he lacks a certain something. The laid-back and unhurried ease that defines us in this town.

His shoulders are tight, and he shifts the weight of his thick legs back and forth as he stands there.

The vibe is giving college basketball coach, and it’s ten seconds to the final buzzer and we’re down by two points.

He’s wound up tight and ready to pop with red-faced fury. Intense, in a word.

“You’re a teacher, right?” The amusement in his face builds, but only one tiny bit at a time.

I wouldn’t call what he’s doing smirking, but it has a hint of arrogance that rubs me the wrong way.

The way some people say that word, “teacher,” you know they’re about to follow it up with their non-expert ideas about what’s wrong with the public school system. God. Please, no.

“Yeah,” I answer, turning my chin away while I watch him because I’m not sure where he’s going with this.

The barely-there smirk expands into a half-grin. “Then I trust you’re a smart lady who can figure it out on your own without me, a man, explaining it to you.”

He says “man” that way because he thinks he knows what I’m all about. He thinks that in my eyes, he’s a mansplainer, based on nothing. If there’s one thing I detest as a teacher of history, it's people who make assumptions.

“I don’t have time for that,” I say, quickly, mockingly looking at my wrist to check the time on the nonexistent watch. “So why don’t you explain the difference between seeing and noticing?”

“Patience,” he says back to me, “Is a virtue. You should work on that.”

A staring contest ensues.

Something is going on in that stare, and I can’t decide if it’s flirtation or if he hates me. “Ms. Travers? Your order’s ready.”

I slide my sunglasses down from the top of my head to the bridge of my nose and turn around, freeing myself from this man’s dark gaze for the moment.

After I pay for the drinks, I turn and give the stranger a brisk obligatory nod, then book it down the block to my car. I’m eager to get to work. And yet, oddly wanting to explore the feeling of intrigue and annoyance that the stranger has stirred up in my lower belly.

When I crank the engine of my aging Volkswagen, I realize he never did tell me what class he was in. Nor did I ask his name. That part’s on me; I can’t believe I was so rude. I hope he didn’t take it that way. I was flustered.

Not that I care what he thinks. He’s too cryptic and gruff for me to worry about his opinions.

When I make the left turn out of town, headed to Merlin Lake, I also realize he knew I was a teacher because he was eavesdropping on my conversation with Levi.

Eavesdropping? Or paying attention?

The reaction in my body is the same either way.

I chug my iced coffee and let the brain freeze erase the deep, dark curiosity.

The marina is humming with activity when I arrive.

Less than a mile out of town, Merlin Lake only exists up here in the mountains because some rich landowner a hundred years ago decided to dam up a river and make a reservoir so he could go fishing in his own backyard.

Today, a couple hundred homes dot the shoreline, anchored by a marina with dozens of boat slips and enough dry storage docking for twice as many vessels.