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Trey took the cat, then offered Cleo a hand. “How’d she handle?”

“She’s perfect. I’ve never sailed anything like her. Small but mighty.” She took the cat, nuzzled it. “We love her. Owen in there?”

“Yeah. Cold drinks, too.”

“Right now I want both.”

When she walked away, Trey ran a hand over Sonya’s windblown hair. “It looks good on you.”

“What does?”

“Everything, but right now? Happy and relaxed.”

“I’m both. And I don’t know half of what Cleo does about boats and sailing, but from my perspective, she’s right. That one’s perfect.”

She took his hand as they walked toward the shop.

“We had other boats come abreast, some taking pictures of us.”

“That’s no surprise.”

“And a couple called out asking where we got the boat. If Owen ever wants to take on more solo custom work, I could build him a hell of a website.”

They stepped inside the cavernous space, and Sonya goggled.

“It’s even bigger than it looks from outside.”

She’d never seen so many tools. Hand tools hanging on a wall, bigger ones sitting on shelves, others that looked powerful, and more than a little scary to her eye, standing on their own. Massive standing chests with drawers she supposed held more. Workbenches, stacks and more stacks of lumber, another shelf holding what she thought were antique tools—including the sander he’d taken from the manor.

More holding cans of resin, paint, sealer.

And tucked back, a battered old couch and what looked like someone’s grandfather’s recliner from the sixties, a dog bed, an ancient refrigerator.

And the desk.

“Is that—that’s the rolltop you found in storage.”

Marveling, she walked to it, ran a finger over its now-silky surface. “How did you manage to let it look old, wonderfully, and shiny new?”

“Elbow grease mostly. I got Cokes, I got beer.”

“A Coke, thanks.”

Cleo, already sipping one, lifted it to the wall above the desk. “You’re putting her there, aren’t you?The Mermaid?”

“That’s the plan.”

Nodding slowly, she sipped again. “It’s a good plan. It’s the right place for her. But right now, I need you to sit at the desk. I need it open, and Jones sitting beside you.”

“Because?”

She reached in her enormous bag, pulled out a sketch pad.

“You have a sketch pad?”

“I always have a sketch pad. Go sit. It’s an interesting setup. Then I’ll trade you for a sail, you and Jones, inThe Siren.”

“I don’t see why—”