“And where are we taking this boat?”
“Let’s say we’re running away.”
“How about you say where we’re going instead of keeping secrets.”
He chuckles. “You do know that the harder this is for you, the less inclined I am to tell you.”
“Sadist.”
“And it’s asurprise, not asecret.”
“Nice rebrand. You’ve always been a wordsmith.”
“Are you done giving me shit?”
I put a finger to my chin. “Probably not.”
“You might be the most frustrating person I’ve ever met.”
I give him a sweet smile. “Yet you still love me.”
“You’redefinitelythe most impatient person I know.”
I snort. “You’re one to talk.”
“I’m patient.”
“You arenot. You consider waiting in line to be a form of torture.”
He looks at me from the corner of his eye. “When something matters, you have no idea how patient I can be.”
He says it in a low, gruff way that sounds sort of sexy, and I stumble over a crack in the pavement.
George steadies me by the elbow. “You all right?”
“Fine.” My voice comes out tight, and I clear my throat.
As George instructed, I’ve worn a bathing suit under my denim shorts and hoodie. He’s in jeans and a T-shirt. I follow him to the wharf, where a man in a ball cap and an orange down vest stands with his legs spread and his arms crossed, as if daring someone to try to knock him over. He has a white beard and a hardened expression, but as soon as he sets eyes on George, asmile breaks across his face. Tethered to the dock beside him is a Boston Whaler with the nameNautical but Niceon its stern.
“Derek,” George says, extending his hand. “It’s so good to see you again.”
Derek ignores George’s palm and pulls him into a hug, thumping him on the back.
“This is a real treat, Saint James. Nice to see your pretty face when the world isn’t going up in flames.” He steps back, grinning at me. “So this is your Frankie.”
“This is her,” George says.
“I feel like I know you already,” Derek says, gripping my hand in his. “Frankie, the girl next door. You’re famous. And those violet eyes! Can’t believe he didn’t mention them.”
I glance at George, seeking an explanation. A flush blooms on his neck.
“Derek and I met when I was covering the wildfires. He was a fire chief in Kelowna and a great help to me.”
“Wasbeing the operative word,” Derek says. “I’m retired now. Fought enough fires for several lifetimes that year. I’m not keen on journalists, but this is a good man you’ve got here, Frankie.”
“I know,” I say. “But he’s also a big fat liar. If he roped you into doing him a favor because it’s our honeymoon, I’m here to tell you it’s a complete fabrication.”
“He said nothing of the sort.”
