Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 108846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
“Yeah, I remember.” I sigh heavily.
This could get interesting.
Fucking hell.
48. Sloane
The midday sun beats down on me as I cross the pothole-riddled parking lot to our registration booth—a wooden utility shed that Gigi dressed up with turquoise paint and a thatched roof to serve as the Sea Witch’s welcome post leading to our three boat slips.
Skye’s angelic face is framed within the open window as she sucks back her daily smoothie while waiting for guests to arrive. An oscillating fan flutters strands of her hair but her complexion glows. We call it the Sweat Shack for a reason. A small plug-in air-conditioning unit on the wall above provides some relief, but it’s unreliable and, in the height of the season, weak against the humidity.
All in all, this is a tedious job—confirming passenger details and liability waivers—but someone has to do it, and God love Skye for being the willing victim most days.
“Hello, sunshine. Who do I have today?” I only skimmed the schedule.
She pauses mid slurp. “Ryan Tatum. Party of six.”
“Ryan Tatum,” I echo. “I hope they aren’t a bunch of loud, obnoxious bros. I’m in no mood.”
“Maybe you aren’t, but you’re gonna put them in the mood in that.” Skye eyeballs the red string bikini I threw on under my floral Hawaiian shirt—the official Sea Witch captain’s uniform, along with a matching wide-brim hat that Frank refuses to wear.
“Too skimpy?” It’s inevitable that I have at least one admirer on a cruise. The outfit inspires some weird fetishes, and the more these people drink, the bolder they get about sharing. Drunk Uncle Phil at Thanksgiving dinner’s got nothing on his brother, Drunk Uncle Ned, during a daytime booze cruise.
Normally, I stick to modest two-piece suits, but they’re all in the hamper, and I figured my shirt is long enough to hide the thong bottom so my ass isn’t hanging out. Besides, it makes me feel good in my skin, and my ego could use a pick-me-up after Ronan’s blow-off, which I can’t seem to shake weeks later.
This is why I don’t do one-night stands. Or one-day stands, as it was.
“Just right, I say. But make sure you lube up.” She waggles her eyebrows in a cartoonish fashion and then tosses me a full can of sunscreen, drawing my chuckle.
“Oh! Almost forgot. A guy came by today. Where is that …” She spins on her stool, searching the cramped desk.
“What for?”
“He was asking about the captain’s job. Seemed nice. Flirty.”
Not surprising that he’d flirt with Skye. “Cute?”
“Yeah! In, like, a beefy black Tom Holland sort of way.”
I’m frowning at the unusual mental picture that draws when she declares, “Aha!” and thrusts a paper into my hand.
Excitement flickers at the prospect of a replacement for AJ. “Devon McCloud,” I read aloud. “Wait, why does that name sound so familiar?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen him around,” Skye says.
“Devon McCloud.” I skim the résumé. When I see the last line, it clicks. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Why? What’s wrong with him?”
“Well, for one, he’s a friend of Cody’s.” Not close, but one, nonetheless. Enough that the name means something. “This guy worked at Neptune’s one summer.” The ice cream shop has served Mermaid Beach for decades. “He got into it with the owner. So he quit and as a parting gift, he flipped the main power breaker off at closing time and opened all the freezer doors. The owner came in the next day to his entire inventory melted. On July 4 weekend.”
“Ouch.” Skye’s face pinches. “That’s criminal.”
“Can you believe he actually included them as a reference?” He probably figured I wouldn’t go back five summers to check. “See? This is what I’m left with. Potheads and ice cream murderers.” I crumple the résumé into a ball and aim for the trash basket in the corner, my hope deflated.
“Have no fear. The next one will be a dream come true. I can feel it in my bones!” Skye hollers after me as I trot down the flight of wooden stairs to the dock. It jiggles beneath my steps as I trudge toward Tiki One, already wishing the next four hours over.
Jeremy is backing out of his slip, his group of bikini-clad partygoers chair-bobbing to the music playing over their speaker. Meanwhile, Tiki Three sits idle in its space, losing us money every day it’s not open for reservations.
“Ahoy, Captain Sloane!” Jeremy hollers from his driver’s seat.
I feel his effervescent mood from here. I wave back, but his rapt focus is already on navigating into the steady flow of traffic. Someone once called Mermaid Beach’s harbor waterfront the Watery Wild West, and I can’t argue with them about that. During high season, the channel is teeming from dawn till dusk, with everything from skilled sailors in their yachts to inexperienced boaters renting pontoons. We’ve had more than one bump-and-nudge over the years. The fishing charter next to us, Eddie’s, lost a boat and half their dock when a group from Louisiana got confused by their throttle and crashed.