“Maybe your wiring is from thestone age!”
Jo and I stop walking.
Two people stand on the dock between a gorgeous vintage houseboat and a no-nonsense fishing vessel. The woman is mid-forties with blonde hair in a ponytail, wearing a coral sundress and sandals, gesturing with a coffee mug like she’s conducting an orchestra of frustration. The man is about the same age, dark hair going silver at the temples, arms crossed, jaw tight, looking at her like she’s personally responsible for every inconvenience he’s ever experienced.
Between them, the air practically crackles.
“That houseboat hasn’t had an electrical issue the whole time it’s been here,” the man says, his voice low and controlled in a way that somehow sounds angrier than shouting.
“Well, it has onenow. Unless you think I’m making it up for fun?”
“I think you plugged in seventeen things at once and blew a fuse.”
“I plugged in a coffee maker.Onecoffee maker. Because I need caffeine to deal with—” She gestures at all of him. “This.”
Something twists in my chest watching them. Not because of them—because of what they remind me of.
Levi and me, years ago—all that fire between us, all that tension we didn’t know what to do with. We fought because it was easier than admitting how we really felt.
These two have no idea what’s coming for them.
A teenage boy is sitting on the deck of the fishing vessel, eating an apple and watching the argument like it’s premium entertainment. He catches my eye and shrugs, as if to say,This is my life now.
Jo leans close. “That’s Emma. And that’s Paul. He owns the marina.”
“I gathered.”
“They’ve been like this since she moved in.”
I should be paying attention, but my mind keeps drifting. Levi’s in LA right now, probably in some sleek conference room with label executives, talking about his future—a future that might not include this town or me.
Emma throws her hands up. “Fine! I’ll just live in the dark! Like a vampire!”
Paul pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re being dramatic.”
“I’m beingaccurate.”
She storms toward the houseboat, then turns back. They exchange a few more barbs about someone eating someone’s daughter’s popsicle—the last grape one, apparently a grave offense—before reaching an uneasy truce.
Then Emma notices us and transforms completely—storm clouds to bright warmth in half a second.
“Jo! You’re here!” She looks at me, then at the flower boxes in my arms. “Oh my gosh, are those the bouquets? They’restunning.Come aboard, come aboard!”
She waves us toward the houseboat, all friendliness and enthusiasm, as if she wasn’t just engaged in verbal warfare thirty secondsago.
Paul watches us go. His expression hasn’t changed—still surly, still guarded—but there’s a flicker in his eyes as he tracks Emma.
Something that looks a lot like fascination.
Jo catches it too. She nudges me gently as we follow Emma up the gangway.
“Twenty bucks says they’re married within two years.”
“That’s very optimistic.”
“I’m a romantic. It’s a disease.”
The inside of Emma’s houseboat is chaos—beautiful, colorful, and thoroughly lived-in.
