He brought us in alongside the dock, smooth and sure, then stepped out first to tie off. That was when I saw the other man.
He came around the side of the building with a coil of rope over one shoulder and a clipboard tucked under his arm, moving like someone who always had three things going at once.Big, dark-haired, expression that didn’t give much away. He looked up when he heard the canoe and gave Cade a nod that communicated something I couldn’t read.
“Kyron,” Cade said.
“Bishop pushed the afternoon trip to four.” Kyron dropped the coil of rope on the dock and set the clipboard on the railing. “Equipment check on the kayaks needs to happen before then. Starboard blade on the third one is loose again.”
“I’ll look at it.”
Just like that, they were in it—inventory and scheduling and something about a fitting on one of the dry bags—and I was standing on the dock with my tote over my shoulder and my hair still damp. The sun had moved well past overhead. The light on the water had that softer, slanted quality of mid-afternoon.
I reached into my bag for my sunglasses and my hand found my phone instead.
I hadn’t looked at my phone all morning. I did that on purpose and was proud of myself for it. It showed discipline. I pulled it out now and the notifications filled the screen.
Mom. Three times.
Dad. Twice.
A text from my mother that started withAnnaleise, the real estate agent called and needs to know—and cut off before I could read the rest.
The dock felt different under my feet. Harder. More like a dock and less like somewhere I’d been standing all morning without noticing the time.
I looked up. Cade was turned toward Kyron, pointing at something on the clipboard, nodding at whatever Kyron was saying. His shoulders were easy. His voice was the same low, unhurried thing it always was. He looked like a man going over afternoon logistics with his business partner, which was exactly what was happening.
He glanced over at me once. I smiled. He went back to the clipboard.
That was the moment. That small, ordinary, completely reasonable glance—the one that didn’t linger, didn’t say anything, didn’t ask me to stay—and something in me just quietly closed.
Of course. Of course this was what it was. He did this every day. He took people down the river and watched them loosen up and said the right things at the right moments because he was good at his job and he knew this river and he knew people.
That was what I’d been. A float trip customer who’d had a lovely morning.
“Cade.” My voice came out steady. I was proud of that. “Thank you. This was—it was exactly what I needed.”
He turned. Something moved across his face, quick and unreadable, and he opened his mouth.
“I’m going to head out,” I said. “But really. Thank you.”
I was already moving. Sandals in my hand, bare feet on the warm wood of the dock, then the gravel of the parking lot. I didn’t turn around because I knew if I did I would find him watching me go, and I didn’t know what I would do with that.
The drive to the inn took eight minutes. I know because I counted every one of them.
Bobbi at the front desk looked up when I came through the door and said something warm about hoping I’d enjoyed the river. I said, “Yes, lovely, thank you,” and smiled the smile I’d spent years perfecting—the one that said everything was fine, that I was competent and composed and completely on top of things.
I made it all the way to the second floor before I stopped smiling.
The room was small and clean and quiet, the light coming through the curtains and casting a glow on everything. I sat on the edge of the bed and looked at my phone.
Mom. Three missed calls. Dad. Two.
The text about the real estate agent.
Another one from my mother underneath it, sent an hour later.We’re so excited for you, baby. This is everything we’ve worked for.
Everythingwe’veworked for.
I set the phone face down on the nightstand.
