Chapter 2
Two
Reef
“Okay, Pete! You’re all set!”
Quincy is very…perky.
And good with the customers. A little too good. And a little too cheery, I think, as I watch Pete Hutchinson slip her a tip as she finishes pumping his gas on his sporty new vessel.
When I showed up at the Minnow Bucket this morning, she seemed just as surprised to see me as I was to see her.
“I know who she is,” I said to Susan, who’s worked here for several years, one of a few year-round employees.
“You do? Well, I already showed her the ropes. Haha, get it?”
I addressed Susan, but stared at Quincy because I couldn’t tear my eyes away from her legs. “That saying comes from ships, originally. So it’s not actually a pun,” I said.
Both women frowned at me.
And that pretty much sums up how my morning went. A lot of staring. A lot of frowning at my reaction to things.
The part where we shook hands was nice. I think I shook her hand a second too long though, because I got another one of those looks from both of the women.
At least Quincy jumps into action when she’s given a task to do, which is more than I can say for a lot of the seasonal helpers.
Pete guns the engine and starts to push off, which has me realizing something is off, and I run in their direction, cursing under my breath and waving him down. Fortunately, Pete sees me and idles the engine. Quincy stares at me, her brow furrowed, obviously wondering what she did wrong.
“Hang on,” I say to Pete. “You know you gotta run the bilge blower before you leave.”
Pete sheepishly reaches for the piling, and Quincy grabs on to the side of the boat as I explain, “With an inboard motor you have to do that, or you risk an explosion.”
The color drains from her sun-kissed cheeks. “Oh no, really?”
She turns to Pete. “I’m so sorry!”
While her back is to me, I retie her whatever-the-hell knot into a proper figure eight on the cleat of another boat in the next slip.
“No worries, darlin’, I should’ve known. I’m anxious to take her out on her virgin voyage, you know?” Pete says.
Maiden voyage, I think to myself. I know he means no harm, but I don’t like the way he says “virgin” around Quincy.
He’s off soon enough, and I show Quincy how to do proper figure eights on the dock cleat with a spare bit of rope.
“You got it. Now practice that twenty more times.”
Quincy blinks up at me. “But you said I got it.”
I nod. “Yes, I did. Do it twenty times, and you’ll have muscle memory.”
She blows a loose lock of hair out of her eyes, and why is that the cutest thing ever?
“You know, as long as the knot works to keep the boat tied to the dock, what does it matter?”
My inner groan of lust turns to a groan of despair. “It just does.”
I don’t really have to stand over her while she ties and reties the figure eights, but I also don’t want to leave. Whatever messages are waiting for me in the office—and there are always messages—they can wait.
And does Quincy really need to do it twenty times?
Well, every time I screwed up, I had Captain Mack chewing my ass and making me redo things fifty times, so I figure I’m going easy on her.
And I’m a little bit of an asshole because I like the way her pink tongue pokes out when she’s concentrating, squatting flat-footed on the planks with her knees pointing skyward and her rounded butt hovering inches from the wood.
Not going to think about how limber she is. That would be wrong.
Sweat drips down my forehead in a steady stream as I watch her work, and I swipe it away with the hem of my shirt.
“That’s twenty. What now, boss?”
Quincy is staring right at my stomach as she squats below me on the dock.
She clears her throat and adds, “Well, my goodness.”
I hold her gaze for a moment, trying to determine why she was remarking on how sweaty I am. I take a big swig from my water bottle, maintaining eye contact. She licks her lips. As I swallow, I offer the bottle to her.
“Thanks,” she says, rising to full height and taking the bottle from me.
Her plump lips wrap around the spout, and I go rock hard as she angles her head back and drinks.
Quincy’s throat bobs. And glistens. I stare at the long, graceful lines along her neck, wishing she still had on that tank top she wore at the coffee shop earlier today.
No matter. I remember what the hollows of her collarbones look like.
She hands the bottle back to me.
A wave splashes violently against the wood piling next to me as Foster’s new speedboat whizzes by.
“When he circles back this way, I’ll show you what to do,” I say to Quincy.
“I think I got it,” she says with a wink. “I don’t think I told you, but I grew up going fishing with my grandpa all the time. He never made me do proper figure eights though. I’ll be good, I promise.”
I’m not convinced. Not because I don’t believe her about her grandpa, but because I’ve seen this a dozen times with other employees.
They think they know what they’re doing, and the next thing I know, I’m replacing a cleat, or worse, writing a check for boat repairs.
I lean against the railing, my arms folded across my chest as I watch Quincy wait for the boat to come in, her long legs bouncing on the balls of her feet in anticipation.
Either she’s had too much caffeine, or she really thinks this job is a party.
Quincy leans forward as the bow approaches, and Foster cuts the engine.
“Wait,” I say quietly, gritting my teeth, holding back the urge to jump in and grab the line from her.
At the same time, I’m blinded by those white shorts, and distracted by the way they hug her curves, and the way her ass bounces.
Fuck me.
She grabs hold of the piling and leans over toward the bow.
I let out a curse as Quincy misjudges the gap between the boat and the dock.
The water is choppy from all the activity, and the bow heaves upward.
She stumbles back, then overcorrects and pitches forward, trying to grab onto the hull.
Just then, the wake of another passing boat sends the bow upward again.
Quincy is all over the place, and she’s about to get dragged into the water.
Instinct takes over, and I lunge for her, hooking an arm firmly around her waist and jerking her back onto the solid planks. Grabbing the boat hook, I push the vessel away from the pilings until the waves have calmed down.
With my hand still on Quincy’s waist, I drag her five feet back, far away from the vessel, and take the line from her. “You trying to die on me?”
I don’t have time to wait for an answer, busying myself with tying the port side to the dock once the vessel has stopped rocking so violently.
Foster and his three passengers hop out and head down the walkway, chatting and laughing about their morning haul on the lake. They’re all oblivious to what almost happened as they head to the fish cleaning station with their pails of fish, coolers, and poles.
I turn my attention to Quincy.
Her eyes are wide and curious. “Um…no?”
“What?”
She smiles. “No, I’m not trying to die on you.”
Clearly she has no idea what almost happened, or she wouldn’t be grinning at me like that.
I thought I’d have to calm her down, but she appears to be as unfazed as Foster’s tipsy passengers.
“Next time, you stay put and watch me do it. You might have experience on your grandpa’s jon boat, but you’re still green at this marina. It looks easy, but you could get injured so fast…”
I can’t even continue that sentence.
“I’m so sorry, boss,” she says, but her smile is too cute for this subject matter. Her curved lips are too unserious. She has no idea the danger she put herself in. “But I promise you, I’m a strong swimmer if I fall in. I have wilderness training and my SAR cert.”
I take a step closer, emphasizing how serious this is. “A certification doesn’t mean shit if you hit your head and I have to pull your body out of the water.”
God, when I think about that…I turn away and close my eyes.
I feel Quincy’s warm hand rest on my upper arm. “Boss, are you okay?”
I snap out of it. It’s all I can do.
“I’m fine,” I say, meeting her compassionate gaze. I don’t want her looking at me like that. She has no idea.
“You seem really shaken. I’m sorry if I scared you.”
Breathing through the moment, I turn away and head up the walkway toward the Minnow Bucket, the small convenience store that sells bait and tackle as well as snacks and other supplies.
“Come on, I’ve got an assignment for you.”
Quincy is right on my heels as my steps creak along the walkway, boats in the uncovered slips gently rocking in the water. “What is it?” Quincy asks excitedly, trying to walk side by side.
“I think it’s safer for you if we walk single file,” I comment.
No smart reply this time. I feel better knowing she can follow orders. Truly, some people cannot.
But more than the danger, I don’t want Quincy getting too close to me for a multitude of reasons.
My mind goes back to the moment when I grabbed her.
I can still feel her soft curves against me, the faint floral scent when her hair brushed my cheek, mixed with the ever-present metallic tang of sunscreen.
The way she smiled at me two seconds after her brush with death.
Maybe that’s an overreaction, but my body still hums with adrenaline.
I don’t have time for this. I don’t have time to worry about a clumsy greenhorn. Especially when that worry is all mixed up with how attracted I am to those pretty, tanned legs, and with the wonder of how they would feel wrapped around me.
Quincy works for me. That means she’s off limits.
Off limits, I mentally repeat to myself as I approach the Minnow Bucket, my hand idly rubbing the spot where Quincy’s hand touched my arm.
I hold open the door for her and watch the sway of her hips as she breezes inside. She stays silent as I show her the digital cash register and the phone.
“It’s pretty simple,” I tell her, explaining that boaters come inside to pay for the single-day rentals and showing her where to log them in.
The long-term rentals and storage, most of those are set up as automatic withdrawal, but the few that come in to pay in person should be a no-brainer for her.
I show her on the computer where to find the register for all the slips and dry storage.
“You log everyone here so we know who’s on the dock and who’s paid.
” Ninety percent of the calls are people asking about the hours of the Heron’s Nest, the lakeside restaurant on the east end of the complex, and I show her how to transfer calls over there.
When I’m done showing Quincy everything in the shop, it ends with her blinking at me.
“You look confused,” I say.
“No, not confused,” she says quietly. “But Susan already showed me all of that. I think I can handle it.”
I dip my chin and turn away from her, eager to put distance between us. It’s not what I want, but it’s for the best. “Call or text if you have any questions.”
But please don’t call or text me. I’ll come running when I don’t need more excuses to sniff her hair.
“Reef?”
I turn around and try to look cool. My chest aches at her expression. A little sad, maybe. All the fun behind her eyes is gone. I know I’m not being entirely fair to her by shutting her up indoors to do the most mundane of tasks when she should be getting more docking experience.
“Yeah?”
“Thanks,” she says.
“For what?”
“For not letting me fall into the water.”
“Can’t let those pretty white shorts get wet,” I say, immediately regretting those words. I tack on, “I’ll be back to check on you later. Don’t leave your post.”
Her smile returns, and dammit, I shouldn’t be so relieved that she’s smiling at me. “Aye-aye, captain.”
“I’m not a captain. And we’re on land…” Why do I have to be so damn pedantic? Technically, the Minnow Bucket is like five feet from the water and sits on pilings along the boardwalk that lines the shoreline. And I know she’s just messing around with that “captain” stuff.
“And if Mack wasn’t spending his summer visiting his kids, he’d have my ass if he thought I was letting you call me Captain.”
Her high-pitched laugh is too much and not enough. I can’t stand it that I’m leaving her alone, but I need to keep her in a safe spot while I get my other shit done. My will to work fights against the need to keep my eyes on her. To keep my arms around her so nothing happens to her.
But that’s not proper, and that’s not safe, if I’m going to be managing a busy marina.
I’ll come up with something for her to do outside so she doesn’t give me that hangdog look again.
I’ll just have to make sure she wears a life preserver.
And maybe a helmet.