Reinforce the dock—spots four and five
Fix the electrical
Repair the seawall—south side
New bumper system
My hand keeps going.
Replace the dock boards—the bad sections
Plumbing upgrade
New office roof
I glance at Florida on the ceiling.
Finally.
It's a good list. A practical list. The kind of list a man writes when he's been holding a marina together with stubbornness and duct tape for the better part of a decade, and who can suddenly imagine not having to.
I should feel relieved.
My chest tightens instead and it’s tougher to breathe. I press my thumb into the edge of the desk and focus on the pressure until the feelingpasses.
The door swings open without a knock, because no one in this town respects a closed door.
“You look like your boat just went down.” Justin fills the doorframe, trailing the sharp bite of diesel and salt water, which means he's come straight off the deck. His shrimp boat docked twenty minutes ago, but I was too busy staring at numbers to go out. “What happened?”
“A rock star wants to park a yacht at our marina.”
Justin blinks. “Come again?”
“Levi Cole. Bought a yacht. Wants to dock it here for his wedding to Delilah. Ceremony on the boat. Right here at the dock.”
Justin is quiet for a long moment. He's the Spencer brother who processes things at normal human speed instead of immediately converting them into irritation like I do.
“How big?” he finally asks.
“Big enough that I need to reinforce the dock in two spots and replace every bumper we've got.”
“How much is he paying?”
I turn the invoice toward him.
Justin's eyebrows climb. They never climb. They're as stoic as the rest of him, and right now they're near his hairline.
“The dock fee,” I say. “Not including modifications.”
“That's more than I make in?—”
“Yep.”
“In a good year, it's?—”
“I'm aware.”
He lowers himself into the other chair—slowly, the way he does on mornings when his back is giving him trouble, though he'd deny it—and leans back.
