“A mega yacht,” he says flatly. “At my marina.”
“Ourmarina,” I correct, because I live here too and I’ve decided that counts.
“Your houseboat doesn’t make ityourmarina.”
“My rent check disagrees.”
“Your rent check and a properly functioning port running light would disagree. Your rent check alone is just a suggestion.”
Delilah looks between us like she’swatching a nature documentary. Levi has the faint smile like he’s thoroughly entertained.
“Paul,” Levi says, and there’s something about his voice—calm, measured—that cuts through the bickering. “I know this is a lot. And I know your marina isn’t built for this kind of event. That’s exactly why we want it. We don’t want some polished resort venue. I proposed on the pier right down there—this waterfront is where our story started. But I also want to make sure it works for you.”
He names a number.
Paul’s jaw tightens. Then loosens into something I’ve never seen before, which I think might be his “Processing Large Sums of Money” face.
“That’s the dock fee,” Levi adds. “Not including what we’ll need for security, setup, and any marina modifications. All of which we’d cover.”
The marina goes quiet. Even the pelicans seem to be waiting.
Paul looks at Levi. Looks at Delilah. Looks at me, for some reason, like I’m somehow responsible for this, which—okay, fine, I did encourage them to have the wedding here when we were chatting at book club, but that was before I knew about theyacht.
“I need to look atthe dock specs,” Paul finally says, which is Paul-speak for “yes but I’d rather die than say yes with enthusiasm.”
“Of course.” Levi extends his hand. “Take whatever time you need.”
They shake. Paul’s grip is firm and brief, and he’s already calculating something behind his eyes—logistics, dock weight capacity, fender placement—because Paul Spencer cannot simply experience a moment without turning it into an engineering problem.
“The yacht arrives in three weeks,” Levi says casually, like he’s mentioning a package from Amazon.
“Three weeks.” Paul’s voice is very even. Dangerously even.
“Is he going to be okay?” Delilah whispers to me.
“Honestly? I have no idea. I’ve never seen him process this many emotions at once. Usually he sticks to one.”
Paul turns and walks toward the dock office without another word. His back is very straight. His shoulders are very tense. He’s either going to make a spreadsheet or have a stroke, and with Paul, it could genuinely go either way.
Delilah and Levi leave shortly after, glowing with plans, two people who are so in love it should beillegal. I wave them off, leaning against the dock railing, the summer sun hot on my shoulders and the sound sparkling like someone scattered diamonds across the water.
A yacht. A celebrity wedding. The biggest job of my career, paying more money than I’ve ever seen in one place. Happening right here, at this scruffy little marina, ten feet from my leaky houseboat.
All I have to do is pull it off. Deliver the most stunning wedding photography of my life. Manage the chaos that’s about to descend on this dock like a well-dressed hurricane.
And I have to do all of it while working alongside the man who just stormed off to his office because I represent everything he can’t control.
I look at the dock office. Through the window, I can see Paul sitting at his desk, already on his phone, already making notes, already turning chaos into order because that’s what he does.
My phone buzzes.
Delilah:Thank you, thank you, thank you. This is going to be magic.
I type back.
Me:It’s going to be something, that’s for sure.
Then I look at the dock office one more time. Paul glances up. Oureyes meet through the window.
