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“That’s our profit you’re throwing around,” he chided.

“Morning to you, too,” I said, continuing to clean the fish with a smile. “You know I’ve done this for years now, right? I could literally do this blindfolded.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. The best there ever was.” He kissed the side of my head as he made his way to the register, keys fumbling in his shaky hands.

He tried to steady them as he hovered over the lock before they eventually fell from his grasp, clattering on the floor.

“Too damn cold in here. Hands need warming up,” he laughed, trying to brush it off, but I knew better—we both did—but Dad would never admit it out loud.

I bent down and picked up the keys. “I got it, Dad. Why don't you go rest?” I said, rubbing his back, trying to ignore the press of bones against my palm.

He looked up at me with his kind brown eyes, the same as my own, except for the faint sadness they held. “Yeah…sure. Just don't forget to put the sign out,” he muttered reluctantly as he made his way back to his office. I’d hear the buzz of the TV soon enough.

“Yes, Dad…” I said. After doing this for ten years, you’d think he would trust that I knew what I was doing by now.

I strode to the front door, flipping the CLOSED sign to OPEN, and grabbed the mail that had piled up in the box. A flurry of bills with Overdue stamped in red screamed back at me as I flipped through the pile, which only gave me more anxiety. Setting them aside, I returned to the prep area and grabbed my fillet knife to finish cleaning the remaining salmon.

The sharp dinging of the bell that sat above the shop’s door startled me, and I almost nicked my hand. That damn bell was something Dad said was part of the charm that the other shops didn't have, but really, it just annoyed the shit out of me.

This early, already? I thought, surprised to see anyone right at open. Especially because I knew almost all of our repeat customers, the good and the bad ones.

The stench of cologne and bourbon immediately filled my nostrils, the familiar smell stinging my memory. I didn’t even have to turn around before I knew who it was.

“Still playing with dead fish, Evie?” a grating voice slurred behind me, cutting through the blissful quiet of my morning.

My stomach twisted, and my mouth curled at the sound of his voice.

Preston Willows.

I turned to see Preston filling the doorway with his lumbering frame. He looked like all the entitled assholes I’d seen near South Lake Union—walking tall with his nose turned up, puffing out his chest like some roided out football player, which went great with his dark hair that was slicked back so tight it looked like a helmet.

Preston wasn’t just your average asshole, though. Oh, no—he was far worse. His eyes were the color of nothing, like a bottomless black darkness. The kind of eyes that looked at people like they were things, and over the last few years, he’d proved me right.

Preston and his goon squad stumbled through the door, their drunken state apparent despite the early hour. “Careful with the knife, babe. Wouldn't want to cut those pretty little hands of yours,” he drawled, his lackey's laughter echoing in time with his.

My knuckles went white, grip tightening on the hilt of my knife. I’d prefer the shrieks of the seagulls over this morning's misogyny.

I glowered back at him, despite this being a regular occurrence whenever he came into the shop. Preston had tried pursuing me for years, but never would take the hint that it wasn't going to happen.

“To what do I owe this displeasure?” I said, donning my best customer service grin. “I mean, what can I get you, Mr. Willows?”

Besides a functioning brain cell and some rehab.

I never did understand why Preston was even the one doing the shopping instead of sending one of his staff. Most likely to see if I’d changed my mind after the millionth time, but alas, I was always happy to disappoint.

“How long have you known me now, Evie?”

Even if it were just a second, that would be too long, I thought.

“We’re friends. Call me Preston, come on,” he drawled, stumbling onto the counter. He leaned his elbows across it, assaulting my senses with his alcohol-laced breath as he shoved his face closer to mine.

Repulsive.

The fact that he thought we were in any way close enough for him to call me Evie made my blood boil. Only Dad and people I really trusted could call me that, and Preston fucking Willows was definitely not one of them. Coming from his family's privilege, I wasn't surprised that he felt so entitled to things he didn’t deserve, though.

“Your Dad here?” he slurred, eyes drifting to the back room.

The hell does he want with my Dad? I thought.