I walk up the dock toward her. “Morning.”
She holds out one of the mugs. “You’re earlier than usual.”
“I’m always early.”
“You’re usually early with less scowling.”
“I don’t scowl.”
“You were born scowling.”
I take the coffee. “Bumper on four needs replacing. Lower dock has one board starting to lift near the kayak rack. There’s a branch hung up in the northern cove. Not dangerous yet, but if the wind shifts, it’ll drift toward the swimming area.”
She stares at me.
“What?” I ask.
“Good morning to you too.”
I grunt and drink the coffee.
She smiles because she knows that’s as close to an apology as she’s getting.
Kelsey and I grew up around the same lake, though she left for college and came back with business software, bright ideas, and an ability to talk tourists into following rules without making them feel stupid. I came back with a truck full of gear, a bad habit of moving every time the weather changed, and enough skills to make myself useful.
“You’re taking the Morrison family out at ten, right?” she asks.
“Kayak loop. Two adults, three kids.”
“The youngest is six and believes he’s part otter.”
“I’ll keep him floating.”
“And the bachelor group in cabins two and three asked about cliff jumping.”
“Only if they’re sober.”
She laughs. “That’s what I told them you’d say.”
“I’m not taking eight inebriated men to the cliffs so one of them can try to impress the others and break his tailbone.”
“I’ll quote you exactly.”
“Do that.”
She takes a sip of coffee, her gaze sliding toward the trail. “Speaking of cliff jumping…”
I know that tone.
“No.”
“I haven’t asked anything.”
“You’re about to.”
“The guest in cabin six stopped by the office.”
My hand tightens around the mug.
