“Hey!” His boss’s nasal voice cuts through the conversation.
David winces but glances over my shoulder. “Yes, Mr. Morgan?”
“Are we going? I could be inside having this conversation where it’s warm.” Like the day before, he’s vastly underdressed for what we’re about to do. His blue pants are back and rolled to his ankles, and his green boat shoes are still pristine. He’s swapped out the pink beach ball shirt for a white collared one, worn underneath a bright blue sweater.
“Can I get you some warmer clothes before we go?” I ask because one of the things Luis made me talk about was what to do if any of the guests get hypothermia, and once we’re out on the water, that sweater won’t cut it. “There are slickers, floater coats, and boots in the cabin.”
Mr. Morgan smacks a hand to his chest. “This is cashmere!”
I’m not sure what that proves other than that it’s still completely unsuitable for a day on the ocean. On instinct, I square my shoulders. This is the kind of guest I was afraid of. He’s not going to appreciate anything about today. Instead, he’ll complain that the water is too wet and the sun is too bright.
Behind me, David makes a strangled noise and steps by me to put an arm around Mr. Morgan’s shoulders.
“Why don’t you wait inside the cabin? You can call Horatio, and we’ll let you know if we see anything interesting.”
“Anything interesting?” Mr. Morgan’s voice is full of disbelief. “Do you know where we are? What would there be to see?” His voice pitches up, and his next questions come in a long string of pointed Italian—or is it Spanish?—that I don’t understand, but at least he allows David to guide him into the cabin. I climb the flybridge, and Mr. Morgan’s tirade is mercifully drowned out as I fire up the engine. TheWinter Hawkhas two big outboard motors that roar to life on the first try, and I have to stop the reflex of turning the key in the ignition a second time—something that was required for my old boat to start every time.
We motor quietly out toward the mouth of the inlet, keeping the engine down to a dull purr. Motion catches my eye, and David appears down below. He’s traded his heavy coat for one of the bright yellow Wild Eagle windbreakers in the dry locker, and he smiles when he spots me on the bridge. I pull the brim of my ball cap down a little farther and tell myself it’s windburn from picking up speed that makes my cheeks heat. David points one finger upward, a silent request to join me, and my hands tighten on the wheel.
I have one job—to keep these people happy—so I nod, even if the confined space of the flybridge suddenly feels cozy. I turn my attention ahead of me, steering us beyond the spit and out into the surf.
David climbs up, taking a seat beside me. “I borrowed a coat. I hope you don’t mind.”
I glance at him, keeping my hands on the steering wheel as the swells pick up beneath us. “That’s what they’re there for.”
I stare ahead, trying to conjure up the kind of person David—and more specifically, Mr. Morgan—expects me to be. Personable and good at conversation. Eager to serve.
“Your boss is...” Yeah, that’s not a good place to start.
Beside me, David smiles at my poor attempt at small talk. “Mr. Morgan, the sixth richest man in Massachusetts.”
“You mean California.”
“What?” His grin turns confused.
“This morning you said you flew up from California.”
His eyes tighten in the corners for a second before he says, “We did. We were in Palo Alto for a conference. Then he decided to come up here.”
“What does he do?”
David stares out at the horizon. “Real estate. Land development. Together with his husband, the other Mr. Morgan, they own half the available mineral rights this side of the Mason–Dixon.”
I search for something to say. You can’t be a born and bred Alaskan and not know a little something about mining and mineral rights. But those conversations often get heated, and while Mr. Morgan’s mention of “Greenpeace freaks” makes it clear what side of the argument he’s on, I can’t say for sure where David’s convictions lie, and for whatever reason, I want him to like me. Maybe so today’s trip is even remotely tolerable since it’s clear Mr. Morgan isn’t going out of his way to be friendly.
While I’m considering all of this though, David has already moved on. “So where are we headed?”
“Are you sure we shouldn’t check with your boss? It’s his dime.” A day of fishing at the Wild Eagle Lodge is more than a dime, but whatever.
David shrugs. “Mr. Morgan would rather be on a beach right now.”
“So why isn’t he?”
“The two Morgans are... having a rough spot. So the other Mr. Morgan took the house in St. Barth’s, and my Mr. Morgan is...” He grins. “Proving a point. So wherever you want to take us will be great.”
I shake my head. I’m not getting involved in some kind of international marital dispute when I could be fishing. Hell, with the engines on this boat, I could be at home in under three hours. I’d like to see the look on Mr. Morgan’s face when Stef and Robbie descend on him and his cashmere sweater. But Harper probably wouldn’t be keen on that plan, and if I upset Mr. Morgan, I can kiss my payday goodbye, and that will be the exact opposite of the homecoming I want.
I glance at David, who’s got his head tipped back in the breeze.
I can think of a few other things I’d like to kiss.
The seas roll under the gleaming boat, and I turn her toward the waves.
“Well then, let’s get fishing.”
