Margot looked at the pier. Evan was at the far end, reattaching the banner with a different anchor system than the one that had failed, moving slowly and methodically in the wet. He hadn’t asked to be assigned to any of it. He’d just done it.
She thought about her elbow. The immediate, uncalculated steadiness of the grip. The way he’d looked at the banner first, problem before person, and then let go the moment she was stable.
She went to help him with the banner. She told herself it was because the expo needed the banner reattached correctly, and she was the event coordinator. That was her job.
She was not entirely convincing.
“You got soaked.” She held the rope while he worked the anchor.
“It’s saltwater. Happens.”
“Does it bother you?”
He glanced down. “Does what bother me?”
“Working in bad weather. Being in the water.”
He was quiet for a moment. His hands didn’t stop working. “Used to. Less now.”
She didn’t push. He’d give her what he was ready to give, and pushing would only close the door. “Thank you for the elbow catch.”
“The fake snow was a hazard. Should have had mats out before the shoot.”
“That’s on my checklist for tomorrow.”
“It’s on mine for tonight.” He secured the last anchor and stepped back to check the hang of the banner. Straight and taut. “You have good instincts. You were clearing the pier before most people knew a storm was coming.”
“I checked the weather three times.”
“That’s not what I mean.” He looked at her, and this close she caught the color of his eyes, a washed-out blue. The rain had darkened his hair, and his collar was wet, and he had the unself-conscious look of a man who lived outside. “I mean you move toward the problem instead of away from it. That’s instinct. Can’t teach that.”
She wrote something on her clipboard that she didn’t need to write, and he went back to the dock. She stood in the clean post-storm air with the banner straight above her. The knot she’d been carrying for days eased a fraction.
Her phone buzzed. Tessa, of course.
Already up. 4k views. Everyone wants to know who the guy on the dock is.
Margot looked toward the marina, where Evan was coiling a line like nothing had happened, and realized the moment she’d just had wasn’t private anymore.
Chapter eight
One Bag
Margotwaspretendingtoread vendor contracts.
The stack sat open in front of her. The decaf beside it had gone lukewarm. Her brain had stopped processing fine print about two hours ago, somewhere between a florist’s third revision and a voicemail about a permit delay.
Around her, the Sandbar was almost empty. A couple in matching robes shared dessert at a corner table. A man in a fishing shirt nursed something amber by the window.
Jolene was behind the bar, wiping glasses. She wasn’t the bartender. The bartender had called in sick, and Jolene had decided that an unstaffed bar was a personal affront.
“You know how to pour drinks?” Margot asked.
“I know how to pour everything.” Jolene held a glass up to the light and set it on the rack. “Twenty-two years at this resort. I’ve covered housekeeping, front desk, laundry, and one very unfortunate week in the kitchen during Covid. Bartending is easy.”
“You’re the most competent person I’ve met here.”
“I know.” Jolene didn’t smile, but the corners of her eyes creased. “You want something stronger than decaf?”
