Four guys are three too many for a standard safety check, but it means we’ll be finished in record time. And I get why Dusty wanted it completed so quickly when he approaches with a large group behind him right as we’re wrapping up. He’s talking animatedly to the silver-haired man who’s walking in front.
I kneel and squeeze a fender, double-checking its inflation, before glancing at Gus. He’s chatting with Mike Quincy, a sophomore who started this summer, oblivious to what I immediately noticed—Wren Kensington is part of the group headed this way.
I don’t pay close attention to gossip about the Hamptons’ elite. I make an effort to purposefully ignore it as much as possible actually. I could not care less who’s having an affair with whom or whose companyjust went public for a bajillion dollars. But I dimly recall Ellsworth’s daughter is married to a Kensington.
Hanson Ellsworth is a chatty, boastful sort, especially when he has a captive audience counting on tips. I’m not sure where Wren is located on the family tree, but it’s close enough to Hanson to receive a coveted invitation out on his pride and joy.
Her golden-and-pink hair is pulled up in a ponytail today, showing off the perfect symmetry of her face. If she needed more money, Wren Kensington could make a lot off her looks.
I think she’s noticed me, too, although I can’t tell for sure since her sunglasses shield the direction of her gaze. I have this sense she has, which sounds stupid to even think.
“Who’sthat?” Ricky Pratt mutters under his breath to my left.
“Dunno,” I reply, pretending my eyes weren’t focused on the same spot a second ago.
“Cap! Gimme a hand here?”
I turn, spotting Wade Greene steering a pontoon boat in a few slips down. I head Wade’s way, catching the line he tosses me. I secure it around the cleat, then do the same at the stern.
“Smooth ride?” I ask, grinning.
Wade flips me off before vaulting over the gate.
Pontoon boats are tricky in the ocean. They’re not as seaworthy as deep-V hulls—equipped to handle moderate choppiness and short coastal trips in good conditions, but not much else. Dusty keeps a couple around because tourists sometimes request them.
“Hey, isn’t that the chick from last night?” Wade asks, glancing in the direction I came from.
I don’t turn to look before shrugging.
The feigned nonchalance feels foreign. I’ve never had toactobliviousbefore; I genuinely haven’t cared.
“Probably.”
“Wren Kensington, right? Why’d you go after her? Cammie was pissed.” Wade chuckles at the memory.
Yeah, got that vibe from her text.
“None of her business,” I say.Or yours.
“C’mon, man. You know she wants it to be.”
I do know. Which is why I haven’t touched Cammie since last summer. I might be an asshole, but I’m not one who intentionally hurts his friends.
“Hey,Cap.”
My heart does this silly somersault in my chest when I recognize her voice.
I turn slowly, making a show of lowering my gaze to make eye contact.
Wren isn’t especially tall, but I wouldn’t describe her as short either. Partially because I don’thaveto crane my neck—I’m just enjoying the view down her shirt—but mostly because she carries a confidence that adds to her height.
“Hey.” I don’t use her name, even though I remember it. It fits her. A little wild. Unusual. Intriguing.
She pushes her sunglasses to the top of her head, nose scrunching as she glances around the marina. “You work here?”
“Yes,” I answer shortly.
Her family is busy making themselves comfortable on the yacht, but Gus is looking this way. I watch him swipe a hand through his shaggy blond hair, a resigned smile appearing on his face before he turns to fuel the rentals that were recently returned.
