I don’t need to be a historian to know this isn’t good.
Nor is the fact that Nash is wearing swim trunks, sunglasses, and carrying enough beach equipment to live here for eleven years.
“We aren’t finding anything here, are we?”
“Of course we are,” Nash says with an easy smile, stabbing an umbrella in the sand. “Fun.”
Naturally.
Cap grunts as he throws a beach bag of towels at my feet. “Hot as a steamy pile of dog shit out here.”
He’s not wrong.
Using a hand to shade my eyes, I study the length of the beach. “How old’s that pier?”
“Built in ’95,” Nash says, unbuttoning his shirt—today’s pick covered in watermelons.
My eyes drop to his exposed chest, and I gift myself three seconds of appreciating the view before going back to my poverty-provoked pity party.
I’ve been able to push my financial situation out of my mind for the last few days because I thought today would be our big break. Because treasure and beaches go hand in hand.Xmarks the spot. This was it—I could feel it.
Now, seeing a normal beach with modern surf shops, taco stands, and bars with neon signs, my harsh reality slaps me across the face. This is nothing likeit.
Nash and Cap settle in beach chairs with Nash doling out beers and Cap taking a hit off Penny.
“What kind of music you like, Cap?” Nash asks with zero urgency.
Like I didn’t just tell him two days ago that all my money is gone and I need this gold.
“Love classic rock,” Cap says, his words coming with a smoke-like puff. “CCR, Steve Miller, Doobie Brothers.”
Nash nods in approval. “Good call.” He scrolls his phone until music plays through a little speaker. He offers me a beer I swat away.
“You have bocce?” Cap asks.
“I do. In the truck.” Nash stands from his beach chair. “I’ll ge?—”
“Are you two kidding me right now?” I demand, hands on my hips. “You’re just here to be at the beach?”
Nash takes in said beach. “Looks like it.”
“Good day for it,” Cap agrees. “Hot as a?—”
“A steamy pile of dog shit, I heard you the first time.” I’m fuming. “I don’t have time for a day at the beach. We have work to do.”
“Sure you do,” Nash says. “You agreed to it. You have two weeks, this was one of Anson’s stops, here we are. Day seven. You have a whole week left.”
I press my palms into my eyes until I see stars. Nash may be winning me over with his romantic retellings of history and my fingers in his mouth, but he still takes nothing seriously, including my dire circumstances.
“We’re supposed to be looking for clues,” I remind him. “Figuring out where the money is. Paying for my backstabbing mother’s brain surgery. Ring a bell?”
He makes a contemplative face. “Vaguely.”
I hope a rogue wave crashes onto this shore and carries him out to sea. “I’m serious, Nash,” I whine. “What are we doing?”
“Take your dress off.”
I frown.
