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CHAPTER EIGHT

The Next Day

Sitting on my mother’s fishing boat, with the sky just beginning to lighten, I stare out at the sea, half-hypnotized by the rhythm of the waves.

I’ve always had moments like this—quiet, introspective ones where I find comfort in listening to the silence. I’ve come to the conclusion that I sometimes pretend to be extroverted because it’s what people expect from me—because my mom is naturally social.

But I’m not antisocial and I don’t hate people.

It’s just that, most of the time, I do better on my own.

I think I’m a bit weird for my age. I watch the tourists who come to Badger’s restaurant—girls eighteen, nineteen years old, who don’t seem to have a care in the world except enjoying life.

I don’t remember ever having a phase like that.

As a kid, I was anxious—always hoping a good family would take me in or that my biological mom would come get me from the orphanage.

Later, I was terrified she’d change her mind after finding me—realize she didn’t want to be a mother and send me back.

Now I live in constant fear that I won’t be able to get her out of prison.

A gust of wind kicks up some sand, blowing it into my face and hair.

I close my eyes to keep the grains out, and when I open them again, the sun is rising.

Time to move, not sit here reflecting on my short existence on this planet.

In a while, one of the potential buyers for the boat is supposed to meet me.

I stand and begin checking over the deck, noting a few small repairs that are needed. A fresh coat of paint might be enough to give the boat a new look.

Badger told me not to let any of the buyers try to lowball me over that.

He’s a born negotiator and offered to come with me—or even handle the whole sale himself—but I politely declined.

My mother is my example. Despite everything she’s been through, she never played the victim. Never leaned on anyone for help.

She has a motto: Easy times create weak people. Weak people create hard times. Hard times create strong people.

That’s the cycle of life. No matter how hard things seem, they pass.

That’s what I focus on.

I didn’t allow myself to cry after the day she was arrested. Since then, I’ve been a fortress for both of us.

I hear other fishermen returning with their morning catch and wonder if, once she’s out, she’ll miss this life. To help save for my college tuition, my mom took a job cooking for a wealthy family in the evenings. That’s why she’s in prison now.

I push the memories aside for now because I need to stay sharp for this meeting.

Glancing at my watch, I see the buyer is officially late.

My regular shift at the restaurant starts late in the afternoon, but today I promised Badger I’d run around town looking for some decor for the main dining room.

I doubt we’ll find anything locally—online is probably our best bet—but since he insisted and he rarely asks for help, I agreed.

Before that, though, I want to get in a six-mile run. Exercise helps me release some of the tension I carry over my mom’s situation.

God, where is this buyer?

I turn toward the boardwalk to look for him and almost exhale in relief when I see someone approaching.

I squint because, even from a distance, I can tell this guy doesn’t belong here.

The way he’s dressed doesn’t match anyone from our world, and he certainly doesn’t look like he needs a fishing boat for income: a white button-down shirt—open at the collar and untucked—over khaki shorts.

Sleeves rolled up, revealing strong, muscular forearms. Loafers.

He’s the image of the wealthy summer crowd that owns beach houses here and in neighboring towns.

I don’t need to see his face to know he’s rich.

Why would a man like that want a fishing boat? Unless he’s one of those strange people with money for several lifetimes and still acts like it doesn't matter.

Someone once told me that the privileged only pretend money doesn’t matter—because they’ve never needed it. Only the poor understand the value of a full table and a roof over their head.

I force myself to focus as the man walks straight toward me.

With every step, a strange unease grows in my chest. I’m used to dealing with the public.

We serve all kinds of people at the restaurant, from all walks of life, but something about the way he moves—the relaxed confidence, the way he holds his head high without rushing.

..It’s intimidating. Like the world already belongs to him and he’s just walking through it.

I should at least pretend not to be watching him so closely, but I feel rooted to the spot, gripped by the need to see his face. His body is already.. .remarkable. Tall, lean, muscular, but not in an exaggerated way. It’s the kind of strength you notice without being told.

Yes, strength —that’s the word I’d use to define him.

I need to see his face, and there’s nothing I can do to stop the anticipation spreading through my chest.

God help me, if he really is the buyer, I need to stay professional. I can’t be attracted to the man who’s going to give me the money we need for Mom’s lawyers.

And then he’s only a few steps away, and a flush of heat spreads under my skin so fast I’m sure my cheeks are bright red.

I hold back a sigh as my gaze sweeps up to his face.

Dark blond hair—almost brown.

A sharply angled face with a square, rigid jaw.

Full lips, pressed into a tight, firm line—but the bottom one? That one hints at sin. I want to bite it. Right there.

His nose could make a Greek sculpture jealous.

He’s completely devourable —but what truly takes my breath away are his blue eyes.

I’ve never seen eyes like that. They’re the exact shade of Cape Cod’s ocean—somewhere between green and blue. It’s like the sea is trapped inside his gaze.

But not a calm sea. Nothing like a bay.

There’s tension in the way he holds himself, but his eyes scream storm. Tempest. It feels like he’s pulling me into them just by looking at me.

It’s not an invitation—it’s a command. And at the same time, I sense he doesn’t want to look at me either. As if he’s just as tempted to turn away, but something invisible, something between us, is holding him there.

His beauty is almost indecent, sexy, and I can’t stop staring.

I couldn’t say whether I’ve been looking for seconds or entire minutes. The sound of the waves is a faint blur. Because right now, he is the only thing that exists.