Page 6 of Hearts on the Line (The Maverick Key #1)

His eyes linger on me for a moment. “Sure. We’ll be there early tomorrow morning if you want to watch… just don’t expect it to be glamorous.”

“It’s 100 percent grunt work,” Jamie says.

He turns to Hannah, eyes glinting. “You should come too. I’ll bet you Wes will be there.”

“Do you want to come?” I ask Hannah.

“Let’s do it.” She blows Jamie a kiss.

I close my sweater, the crisp early morning air refreshing against my skin. The moon’s still in the sky, fading fast. There’s not much time left before daylight. Maverick Key is waking up.

Hannah stands waiting for me at the entrance to the marina, coffee in hand for Jamie.

“Ready for the show?” She nudges me toward the docks.

Ding jogs beside us, his ears perked up, excited to be here.

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen this part of Nathan’s world. I’m finally connecting the dots of his past.”

Her eyes flick ahead to the rows of ships tied to the pilings. “Well, you’re here for the connection, and I’m here for the view.” She motions to all the men working on the docks. “Of the ocean, of course.” She chortles. “Let me go find Jamie. I’ll be right back.”

The wooden planks creak under my feet as I step onto the pier.

The smells of brine, fish, and diesel mix with the cool breeze, a distinct and oddly comforting blend.

Men and women move with choreographed efficiency, hoisting tanks, testing equipment, and shouting clipped instructions to each other.

The occasional clang of metal and the splash of ropes hitting water punctuate the hum of activity.

My gaze settles on the boat docked at the end of the pier.

Adeline— its name painted in bold, weathered letters along the bow.

It sways with the tide as Scott’s crew moves across the deck.

Scott stands at the stern. His broad frame silhouetted against the pale light of dawn.

He’s focused on coiling rope. Liam hoists tanks onto the deck like they weigh nothing while Margaret is working at the helm, checking the tiller.

Hannah’s getting off the boat after waving goodbye to Jamie, who’s crouched near the motor housing, mumbling under his breath as he tinkers with a fuel line.

He pauses and takes a sip of his coffee, looking Hannah’s way.

She turns to me. “He’s like the annoying little brother I never had.” Her face is flushed.

I laugh and point at the crew. “They’re a well-oiled machine.”

Hannah leans against a post, folding her arms. “Well, they have been at it for months.”

I look closer at the boat. “Adeline. That’s a beautiful name. Where did it come from?”

Hannah hesitates, her expression dampening. “Scott named it after his wife.”

I blink. “His wife?”

“His late wife,” she clarifies gently. The sparkle in her brown eyes dims. “She passed away a few years ago… in a diving accident. Scott was with her.”

“Oh.” The gravity of her words sinks in.

I want to ask her more, but a strong voice cuts through the air, pulling my attention to a man speaking to a cluster of people gathered at the end of the pier.

“That’s Mark Glassier,” Hannah whispers, leaning closer. “He’s a Coast Guard lieutenant. The lead here in Maverick Key. His coast guardsmen are the only thing keeping our waters from spiraling into chaos.”

Mark radiates composed authority, his calm voice softening the rigid edges of his unyielding expression.

“This area is restricted. If you don’t have the proper permits, you’ll need to leave the pier.”

A man shoves a piece of paper at him. “I’ve got a permit right here.”

Mark glances at it. “That’s a fishing permit, not clearance to dive Carter’s Drop. Sorry, this isn’t negotiable.”

Another man raises his voice in frustration. “We didn’t come all this way to get blocked by red tape. We’re just here to swim, man.”

Mark doesn’t flinch. “The rules are in place for a reason. Carter’s Drop isn’t a recreational dive site. If you want access, get the proper permits and come back.”

Grumbling ripples through the group, but eventually, they stomp off.

“Mark and Nathan were college buddies. You’ll want to connect with him.”

I start to walk over when Hannah’s hand on my arm stops me. Her voice drops to a whisper, and her eyes brighten with excitement. “There he is.”

“Who?” I ask, but it’s obvious who she’s spotted by the way she’s bouncing on her heels.

Hannah’s eyes lock onto another gathering of people at the checkpoint.

At the center stands a man who commands attention.

Tousled, rust-blond hair, and sharp, chiseled features give him the air of someone who thrives in the spotlight.

His eyes sweep over the pier, lingering on Mark before scanning the rest of the scene.

He moves with the confidence of someone accustomed to being noticed—and accommodated.

“That…” Hannah breathes, awe in her voice. “Is Wes Harrington. Internet sensation, modern-day explorer.” She giggles. “And some say a pain in the ass.”

Wes hands Mark a set of neatly folded documents, his movements thoughtful and precise. His smile is winsome, but it has a polished edge. It’s practiced.

Mark scans them. “Welcome to Maverick Key, Wes. It’s been a while.” Wes shakes his hand. “You’re cleared for Carter’s Drop.”

“Much appreciated,” Wes replies, his tone easy as he claps one of his crew members on the shoulder. “All right, let’s go.”

“Stay out of trouble.” Mark gives him a stern look and frowns when Wes salutes him with a grin.

As his team heads toward their boat, Wes straightens as his eyes lock on Scott.

“Rickter,” he calls, his voice carrying over the buzz of the pier.

Scott turns, his expression unreadable. “Harrington.”

Wes saunters closer, hands tucked in the pockets of his windbreaker, every movement deliberate and calculated. Provocative like he’s daring Scott to react.

“Still running your operation like clockwork, I see.”

Scott’s shoulders go rigid and a muscle ticks in his cheek. “Some of us focus on work, not cameras.”

Wes chuckles, low and amused. “My cameras pay for the work. You should try living in the big leagues one day. You might like it.”

Scott doesn’t respond, but the tension in his muscles speaks volumes.

“I’ll see you at the Drop.” Wes lingers for a moment, then strolls back to his boat and climbs on. The sleek vessel roars to life, slicing through the water and disappearing toward the horizon.

“Well.” Hannah exhales, blowing out a low whistle. “That wasn’t subtle. I could taste the testosterone from here.”

“Do they know each other?”

“Yeah, they cross paths from time to time in the caving circuit. There’s a wager going around the island which one will kill the other first.” She shivers, biting down on her lip. “I’m at a loss where to put my money.”

My gaze drifts back to Scott. He’s unruffled, but the way his fingers curl into his palms betrays the tension he’s holding back. He’s so handsome.

I step closer, hoping he’ll notice me.

Scott pauses what he’s doing, his eyes meeting mine. Surprise flashes across his face. He dips his head. And then gives me a big, genuine smile. I catch my breath as his attention snaps back to his team, focusing on the task at hand.

Hannah nudges my shoulder. “Look at you, softening up tough old Scott. I think you’ve made an impression on him. That’s not an easy thing to do.”

I’m not sure about that, but the man has left one on me.

As the boats pull away from the pier one by one, my gaze lingers on the horizon until Adeline disappears.

I’m sitting cross-legged on the rug in my cottage, my back pressed against the couch, with Ding sprawled beside me.

I have a bowl of Skittles within arm’s reach.

Through the open window, a faint, briny scent from the ocean blends with the earthy aroma of the aged wooden furniture.

The small cottage, tucked behind the inn’s main building, was once Nathan’s home.

His research and notes are now enshrined within its walls.

Nathan’s notebooks are stacked in front of me.

Their cracked spines and dog-eared pages show the wear of years spent in his restless hands.

I reach for the top one, brushing my fingers over his name on the cover.

I flip through it, the pages bursting with detailed sketches of objects, geographical features, and dense blocks of notes.

I comb through one notebook after another, losing track of time as hours go by.

What were you searching for?

When I open the next journal, newer than the others, a folded sheet of paper flutters to the floor.

A poem, in Nathan’s handwriting.

Between waves, a memory sings

Whispers of a touch

The sea calls, but it will not claim

I hear her

Rereading it, I sigh.

Nathan was such a romantic.

He was fond of classic authors and poets and their timeless words, quoting Keats and Shelley at the funniest moments.

But this is personal. Folding the poem to return it to the notebook, a faint sketch catches my attention.

A seashell, the spiral patterns subtly forming the shape of a heart.

Nathan liked to sketch, but it seems like an odd thing for him to draw.

I put the notebook down and head toward the desk in the room’s corner.

The desk creaks as I pull open the drawers.

They’re cluttered with pens, papers, and an old flashlight—ordinary things.

The inside of the bottom drawer is different from the other two.

It’s not the same size. Running my fingers along the wood, I tap lightly until I find a thin, nearly invisible seam.

My breath hitches. With trembling fingers, I grab a letter opener from the desk and slide it carefully into the seam, prying upward. With a soft pop, the false bottom gives way, revealing a hidden compartment.

The scents of aged paper and leather rise as I pull out a small bundle of objects wrapped in cloth.

Inside, there is a collection of folded papers, a slim leather-bound journal, and a strange object—a stone?

The stone feels heavy and solid in my hand.

Smooth and dark, intricate carvings cover its surface.

But what sends a shiver down my spine is the warmth—it’s unnaturally warm.

What is it? I trace the grooves of etched symbols with my fingertips and look for a crease to see if it’s running on a battery or something.

Nothing, it’s completely solid. So strange.

As I place the stone on the desk, another piece of paper catches my eye. I unfold it and read the hurried words scrawled across it.

Call me tonight. It’s important.

The handwriting is feminine and unfamiliar.

I spread the rest of the papers across the desk. One is a hand-drawn map marked up in Nathan’s distinctive style. It isn’t the map Scott’s team showed me. This one is more detailed and handwritten, with some sections marked in red ink.

My brow furrows.

You were exploring deeper than we thought, weren’t you?

Among the papers is a sheet full of symbols, a chaotic scrawl, uniform and consistent. I tilt my head, squinting.

A startled breath escapes me. Nathan, you genius.

Ding stirs, lifting his head.

The code. A language we’d created as kids—a private shorthand for secrets. I recognize the first combination immediately. He’d used it so many times. It says Maddie .

He wrote this to me.

It’ll take time to decipher the rest of the message, but one scribbled note, uncoded, an absentminded doodle, stands out like a warning.

I don’t trust him.