He looks away first this time.
But not before I catch it—the tiniest crack in the grump. The smallest softening around his eyes. Like he just got dragged into something enormous and finds it a little bit exciting, not that he'd ever admit it.
I'm in so much trouble.
TWO
PAUL
Arock star just offered to pay me more money to park his boat than my father made in the first five years of running this marina.
I should probably do something about that. Call Dad. Tell Dawson. React like a normal person would when his entire financial reality shifts in a single conversation.
Instead I write the number on the back of an invoice and stare at it until the dock lights click on.
The dock fee alone.
Not including security setup. Not including what it'll take to make the dock strong enough to hold a vessel that weighs—I pull up the details on my phone the second I sat down, because I processemotions through math—approximately four hundred and fifty tons.
The biggest boat I've ever docked here weighed eighty.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and lean back in my chair until it creaks. The ceiling has a water stain shaped like Florida that I've been meaning to fix for three years. The ceiling doesn't care about my problems, it already has Florida to deal with.
Here's the thing about getting offered a lot of money: it makes it very hard to be angry.
And I am a man who relies on anger. It's my operating system, what gets me out of bed at five thirty, onto the dock by six, checking ropes and boards before the sun is fully up. Anger is simple. It doesn't require me to feel anything complicated.
But I can't hold a grudge against Levi Cole for offering me enough cash to replace every dock board and upgrade the electrical panel I've been nursing along with duct tape and prayer—and if I'm being honest, and I'm never honest about finances because it requires admitting things aren't great—maybe finally stop worrying about whether the marina survives another winter.
I should resent him for it. Ican't.
Which is infuriating.
I pick up my coffee mug, realize it's empty, and set it back down harder than necessary. The mug has a cartoon pelican on it that Dawson painted at one of those pottery places when he was twelve. The pelican looks annoyed. I've always related to it.
My phone vibrates.
Dad:Heard we're hosting a wedding! Wonderful news. I always said that marina needed more romance.
I stare at the text. “Heard.” Like this is neighborhood gossip and not the most disruptive thing to happen to my dock since Hurricane Floyd. “Wonderful news.” From the man who retired and left me to deal with everything while he fishes and flirts with women fifteen years older than him.
I type back.
Paul:Did you know about this?
Three dots.
Dad:Levi mentioned it when I ran into him at the Piggly Wiggly.
The Piggly Wiggly. My seventy-two-year-old father is apparently conducting business deals in the produce aisle.
Paul:You could have warned me.
Dad:Where's the fun in that?
I set the phone face-down on the desk.
The invoice is still there. The number hasn't changed. And underneath it, because apparently my hand has opinions my brain didn't authorize, I've started a list.
