“I’ll see what I can do.”
His tone is easy, almost teasing, and something about it makes my pulse tick up a notch.
By the time we reach the boat, I’ve nearly convinced myself this day might not be so bad. Then he tosses me a bottle of SPF and a pair of ancient-looking motion sickness wristbands.
“Um, in no world is this better than a cookie,” I say.
“They’re for after the tour,” he says. “Cleaning out the boat. Thought you might need them. Even docked.”
Oh.
I look down at the wristbands again, my grip loosening slightly. They’re fraying at the edges, the once-black fabric now faded tocharcoal, but they suddenly feel less like a joke and more like... a gesture. Kindness, maybe, if you squint hard enough. It would’ve beenkindernot to make me get on the boat at all, of course, but it’s better than being on plunger duty.
Before I can react, his phone buzzes and whatever he sees on the screen hardens his expression.
“Can you head back to the truck and wait for Tate?” He hands me a set of keys. “The sign for the tour is in the back. Just unlock it for him and he’ll set it up.”
“Pick up trash and wait by a truck.” I sigh somewhat dramatically. “How did you ever live without my immeasurable help?”
He huffs out a reluctant laugh. “Oh, don’t worry. You’ll be doing a lot more than that today.”
Good, I think, as I stroll back to the parking lot, though I think he was trying to rattle me. That might have worked before he gave these worn wrist bands to me, but after? Not so much.
The truck’s tailgate groans as I lower it and decide I don’t need to wait to lift out a single sign. I mean, how heavy can it be?
The answer is very. The steel pole weighs a ton, but I manage. The large, solid-wood sign is another story. I’m about to psych myself up for a third try when a pair of slim, tanned hands grips the opposite corner.
“Here, let me help,” the girl I instantly recognize as the mermaid from McCleave’s tour says, crouching down beside me. “On three?”
We both groan under the weight, but together, we wrestle the sign into place, securing it onto the pole’s rolling base.
“Thanks,” I say, shielding my eyes from the sun. “Kind of my first day, and I may have overestimated my own strength.”
“It’s not you,” she says, shaking out her hands to force the feeling back the same way I am. “Leon from Salt & Timber Signworks made it last year to withstand a hurricane. I’ve never been able to lift it by myself.”
“Oh, good. I don’t feel so bad now.”
She keeps smiling. “It’s Lili, right?”
I nod. “And you’re the mermaid. I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”
“Eryn,” she says.
“Eryn! Pop the trunk!”
Tate’s voice cuts through the lot, and without looking, Eryn hits a button on her key fob. A little red compact car beeps in response.
“I’m so glad Wren brought you today.” Her smile turns shy as she shifts her feet, the sunlight catching the pearlescent shimmer dusted over her skin. “I thought for sure he’d keep you cooped up in the back room hunched over a desk all day. I mean, who would choose that over this?” She stares out over the choppy water.
She clearly doesn’t share my reservations about boats bobbing like corks on the waves. She spots Wren on the boat and raises a hand in greeting.
He hesitates before lifting his own in response.
Behind her, Tate straightens from the trunk. “Okay, we’ve got your tail, your towel, your neoprene socks, your conditioner. And... yep, all set.” He notices me for the first time, grinning around a Twizzler that’s hanging from his mouth. “Oh hey, Tourist Girl.”
“What did you call her?” Eryn frowns, brushing back a wisp of her black hair that’s escaped from the messy bun on her head.
“It’s a Wren thing,” I say quickly. “Apparently, it’s easier than using people’s names.” The nickname itself doesn’t bother me, not really. It’s the way he sometimes says it, like I don’t belong here, that feels unfair.
