Page 9 of As a Last Resort

AUSTIN

Monday was busier than usual.

Over the last few years, there had been a steady increase in the number of tourists coming to visit, even in the later summer months when your shirt would stick to your back if you just dared to think of going outdoors.

The ferry schedule was tight. Tight enough that if I added any more runs, I’d be working my crew into the ground.

We were already running six days a week, filling any daylight hours with runs across the water.

I didn’t personally like nighttime runs.

The view of the island in daylight was a much better first impression but if numbers continued to grow like they were, I wouldn’t have a choice but to add a few onto the schedule.

What I needed was a bigger boat. And bigger boats were expensive.

“You go see that two-hundred passenger for sale yet?” Patrick asked as he mopped down the deck between runs.

A sightseeing charter in north Florida had been bought out and had a boat for sale a couple hours away.

It was the perfect upgrade to my current one-boat show, and the new owner wasn’t local.

He wanted to get rid of it quickly, so the price was right.

“No. Ran out of time and couldn’t squeeze it in.”

“Want me to go take a peek? I’ve got the time tomorrow while you’re running. Or,” he switched to his Jamaican accent, “I could run the ferry, mon. Allow me to introduce your guests to the beautiful world of Rock Island—the authentic way.”

I did a double take. He really did look like the Bolt.

“And what exactly is authentic about a Jamaican ferrying people to an island in Florida?”

“Similar climates. And people always love the accent, you know that.” One corner of his mouth pulled up and he wagged his eyebrows. “For real though, you need to take a look and this ferry needs to keep running. I’ve got you, man.”

Generally speaking, I’d rather do something myself and make sure it gets done right, even though I trust Patrick as much as I’m capable of.

Previous experience in trusting other humans would lead me to believe it’s a safer bet to rely on yourself.

If something were to happen on my watch, the guests’ safety would be in my hands.

But if I’m not there, I can’t do anything about it.

My mother calls it guarded . I call it being responsible .

“What do you say, Capt’n? You promise to go take a peek at that new boat you need to be buying, and I promise not to sink this one. Deal?”

Click-click-click.

My head shot up.

There was something about a certain click-click-click coming down the dock that told you the owner of that noise was going to be trouble.

That sound meant one of two things—the owner had never been on a dock before and didn’t realize their heels would inevitably get caught in the open slats, or two, they knew and didn’t give a shit.

I didn’t need the confirmation of the big floppy hat and oversized sunglasses to tell me this one was the latter.

Click-click-click.

I watched out of the corner of my eye. She halted halfway down the dock as her suitcase slammed into her leg. One heel had wedged itself into the open crack of the old wooden boards.

She mumbled something under her breath.

Well, that’s what happens when you walk on a dock in inappropriate shoes—they’re not exactly high heel friendly.

Her oversized hat engulfed her frame as she bent down, dropping her purse to the ground as her rolling suitcase fell over to the side.

She worked to get her heel out, then fell back on her butt.

She took her glasses off, turned her head to the sky, and exhaled loudly.

Holy shit.

It couldn’t be.

I guess technically speaking it could be, but the chances were so slim I shook my head and squinted my eyes just to make sure.

Here’s the thing about our small town and the people who grow up here—there are three types.

There are the ones who stay. Forever. They marry their high school sweetheart they walked on homecoming court with, have babies soon after graduation, then your mom ends up teaching their kids first grade eventually and you’re cheering at the same Little League games with them.

You see them every Friday night at the high school football game working concessions, then at the grocery store every Saturday afternoon, then nestled in a church pew on Sunday morning.

Then, there are the ones who boomerang—they leave for a little bit, but inevitably come back to run the family business, take care of a sick parent, or they just partied too hard in college, flunked out and have nowhere else to go so they make it work.

Then there were the Samantha Leighs—they left and there wasn’t a shot in hell they’d ever come back.

Patrick’s voice rang out from beside me. “You good, man? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.” He followed my eyeline and whistled. “Now that’s a fish outta water if I’ve ever seen one.”

She had managed to wrench her heel free and was almost to the boat, but Patrick shot up at the sight of her, always the knight in shining armor, and leaped off to help her. She was looking up at the signs on the dock, but there was no doubt in my mind she was headed for ours.

I counted how many seconds it would take for him to recognize her. She was a few years behind us but she had one of those faces that’s hard to forget.

“You looking for a ride to Rock Island?”

I saw her eyebrows pull at the sight of his name tag, probably trying to reconcile a semi-familiar face with a totally bogus name. “I am. Are you with Scuttle’s Ferry?”

“The one and only!” he responded. My eyes stayed glued to the deck, untying and tying the same rope for the fifth time.

“Let me grab this here monstrosity for you and help you right along on board.” He grabbed her suitcase, which really should have been considered cargo freight, and hoisted it onto the boat.

“Those heels there might kill you getting in. No sense in breaking an ankle.” Before I knew what was happening, Patrick picked her up like a baby and hoisted her aboard.

Her breath caught and I couldn’t help but laugh. Oh, he was going to get it.

Once her heels touched the fiberglass of the boat deck, she turned around and glared at him, eyes narrowed as if she could pierce straight through him with her gaze.

“I’ll have you know, Patrick ,” she stepped toward him, jabbing his name tag to his chest, “I’m perfectly capable of getting on and off this boat by myself.”

At the same moment, a rogue wave from a Sea-Doo splashed against the side of the boat, rocking it just a bit, tipping her barely off balance and backward. Right into my arms.

“Okay, yeah, sure.” His eyes twinkled. “Maybe getting on and off, just not standing on the boat.”

“Whoa there.” I hoisted her back on two feet carefully. She smelled like expensive shampoo. “You might want to take them off just for the ride. It can get a little bumpy.”

She looked straight into my eyes and I watched her eyes soften, blink slowly, then narrow. “Austin?”

“Long time no see, Scuttle.”