Not a glance. Not the quick look-away heusually does. An actual look. Steady and warm and lasting about two seconds longer than it should.
My face goes hot. My fingers tighten around the railing. He holds my gaze and I hold his and the whole marina disappears for a breath—the kids, the engine, Harold's whistling, all of it gone—and it's just Paul Spencer's gray eyes and the late sun on his face and my heart doing absolutely reckless things in my chest.
Then he finishes the knot and steps onto the dock and becomes Paul again—shoulders set, jaw tight, already scanning for a problem to fix.
But those two seconds. I felt those two seconds all the way to my toes.
Harold catches my arm as I step off the boat. “Same time Thursday?” he asks, quiet enough that only I can hear.
“The boys would love that.”
“I wasn't asking about the boys.” He pats my arm once and walks toward his truck, whistling.
The sun is dropping toward the tree line, painting everything peach. The boards are warm under my bare feet. Aidan is telling Millie about the teenage dolphin's backstory while Olson asks when Thursday is. Lottie is standing at the railingwith her face tipped up to the evening light, breathing in salt air like she's learning how.
I glance at the office. Paul is inside, at his desk, back to work.
But the light is on. And through the window, I catch him looking out at the water one more time before he picks up his pen.
SIX
The breaker trips at 6:47 a.m.
I know this because I am standing in the dock office with a cup of coffee that is still too hot to drink, staring at the electrical panel like it personally insulted me, when the light above my desk flickers once and dies.
The shore power indicator for slip twelve goes red.
Slip twelve. Emma's slip.
I set down my coffee. Take a breath. Count to five because counting to ten feels excessive at this hour.
Then I grab my tool bag and head outside.
The marina at dawn is one of the few things in my life I've never gotten tired of. The water is settled—not calm, because the intracoastal is never truly calm, but quiet, like it's deciding what kind of day to be. The dock boards are cool under my boots. A heron is standing on the far piling, surveying its kingdom with the dignity of a creature that has never once questioned its purpose.
I envy that heron.
The houseboat comes into view as I round the boathouse. I can already see the problem. There are approximately six hundred things plugged in on the aft deck—a string of fairy lights, a phone charger running through the window, a small electric fan aimed at a beach towel draped over the railing. New additions since yesterday: a tablet plugged into an extension cord and a portable speaker sitting on the bench like it lives there.
Lottie. The friend. Who arrived yesterday with two eight-year-olds and apparently an entire electronics store.
I step onto the dock beside the houseboat and check the shore power connection. The cable is warm to the touch, which means it's been drawing more than it should. I crouch down at the junction box. Nothing fried, but the amperage reading tells me everything I need to know.
This houseboat is pulling thirty amps on atwenty-amp circuit, and multiple people decided that a vessel built in 1987 can handle the electrical demands of six people and what appears to be a personal charging station.
I stand up. The curtains are drawn. Nobody's awake yet. The sensible thing to do is reset the breaker from the office, leave a note about load management, and go back to my coffee.
The door opens.
Emma is standing in the doorway in a faded blue T-shirt and pajama shorts, holding an empty coffee mug, squinting into the sun like it showed up unannounced.
“The power's out,” she says.
“I know.”
“Did it just go off?”
“Breaker tripped. You're pulling too much amperage.”
