“As long as they stay on top of the water,” she said.
“There’s a rental place down by the south pier,” he said. “Small day boats, nothing fancy. We could take one out, poke around the shoreline, pretend we’re the kind of people who know how to relax.”
She tilted her head. “You sure you remember how?”
“I’ve got a vague recollection,” he said. “You willing to help me remember?”
She reached across the table and wrapped her fingers around his. “Always,” she said.
He squeezed back. “All right then,” he said. “You’ve got a date with the harbor.”
Chapter 20
Hank stood at the edge of the south pier and tried not to think about all the ways a boat could go wrong.
The rental outfit was a low, weathered shack with peeling blue paint and a hand-lettered sign that said HARBOR HOPPERS. A row of small day boats bobbed at the dock, their hulls knocking gently against rubber bumpers. A teenager in a faded life jacket sat on a stool out front, scrolling on his phone.
“You the guy who called about the afternoon slot?” the teenager asked without looking up.
“That’s me,” Hank said.
“Boat’s fueled and ready,” the kid said, jerking his chin toward a twenty-foot center console with a small outboard. “Keys are in it. There’s a chart and a radio; if you get into trouble, call Harbor Patrol on sixteen. Bring it back with the prop still attached, and my boss will love you forever.”
“Solid motivation,” Hank said.
He signed the waiver on the clipboard, trying not to dwell on the words assumption of risk. The Marine in him cataloged wind speed, wave height, and the placement of nearby buoys; the part of him that had grown up spending summers at the lake remembered the feel of a boat under his hands and relaxed a notch.
Footsteps approached on the wooden planks. He turned; Bree walked toward him, hair pulled back in a low knot, sunglasses perched on her nose, a light sweater over her T-shirt. She carried a small canvas bag and her sketchbook.
“You look like a brochure,” he said.
She snorted. “If this ends with me falling in, I’m demanding a refund,” she said. “And I’m not paying extra for trauma.”
“I’ve got you,” he said.
“I know,” she replied.
He helped her into the boat, steadying her with his hands on her waist. The brief press of her body against his, the trust in the way she stepped down without looking, made something warm expand in his chest.
He untied the lines, pushed them off from the dock, and eased the throttle forward. The little boat responded smoothly, carving a path through the gentle chop.
They passed the harbor entrance slowly, idling near the breakwater while he got a feel for the engine. Gulls wheeled overhead; a larger fishing boat chugged by, its wake rolling under them.
“Okay?” he asked.
Bree sat on the padded bench beside him, one hand resting on the rail, the other shading her eyes. “More than okay,” she said. “This is… beautiful.”
Copper Moon spread out around them in a curve of shoreline; the boardwalk, the old lighthouse, the distant sparkle of the Cup banner still hanging near the civic center. From the water, the town looked both smaller and more solid, like a model someone had built with unusual care.
“Where to?” he asked.
“You’re the local now,” she said. “Show me your favorite view.”
He thought for a moment, then angled the bow south, toward a quieter stretch of coast. After a few minutes, the boardwalk noise faded; low cliffs took over, dotted with scrub pine and patches of wild grass. A narrow strip of sand appeared, tucked between two rocky outcrops.
He cut the engine and let them drift.
“This is where I come when the track noise gets too loud in my head, and there are too many people on the beach.”
