“I know how it sounds.” He had the decency to look pained, and his tone acknowledged the delicate ground he was now treading. “But… the Scripps team. Tessa’s team. They’re not your averagelet’s poke a starfishcrowd. They’re serious science types with a serious contract, and they need special handling. We’re contractually obligated to be on site with them.”
Which he’d conveniently left out the other night. “We have to be on the boat? Find someone else.”
“I don’t have anyone else.” He leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Consider it a charitable donation to theKeep Mom from Firing Me for Screwing Up a Major Contractfund. This is a big deal, Braden.”
I scowled. The worst part was that Eli was infuriatingly right, wrapping the obligation in just enough charm that I couldn’t call him an asshole for it. This was my family and our business. Tessa was just a ghost who decided to put on a wetsuit.
He held up both hands. “Listen, you’d only be topside. You drive the boat, manage the anchor, work the radio. She’ll be sixty feet down, doing her science thing with the others. There will be a perfect, professional barrier of fiberglass and water between you. Just for a few days. Two or three until I can get things sorted. Please. You’d be saving my ass.”
Maybe I wouldn’t need to spend that much time with her. I could enjoy being on the water without gettinganywhere near the actual blast zone. I’d be a captain—a glorified water taxi. I could do that.
“You just need a driver?” I confirmed, keeping my voice level, testing the boundaries of the deal.
“A captain,” he agreed, looking immensely relieved that I hadn’t bolted. “That’s it.”
“One day. I’ll give you one day. After that, you’re on your own.”
The relief on Eli’s face was immediate and absolute. “One day is better than zero! I’ll take it. Thank you. You’re a lifesaver. Well, I’d better get back to the ol’ salt mine.” He swooped down to pick up the slate, his mind already moving on. “By the way, Jules says hi and to stop dodging dinner invites. Mom’s makingropa viejatomorrow.”
Right. Sunday dinner. Another obligation I couldn’t escape. “Why not? Tell your wife hello back, and I’ll bring the beer.”
His gaze sharpened for a second, catching the tension I couldn’t hide. “You okay, man?”
“Yeah, I guess.” I stared out at the endless blue. “Just getting used to a rather enormous change of events.”
“I imagine you are. Thanks for helping out with the project. Really—I know that was the last thing you wanted to hear.”
“Remember. I’m only driving.” I shot him a hard glare.
He nodded and gave my shoulder a final squeeze, a silent acknowledgment of the minefield he’d just pushed me into. “I’ll text you the details.”
I trudged out of the tank room like a guy walking away from a ticking clock. I told myself Sunday would reset me. Family could do that—even when they were the ones putting you in the line of fire.
The next twenty-fourhours were an exercise in controlled distraction. Inventory. A supplier snafu with CO2 canisters. A recipe tweak on the Key Kölsch had me shaving zest off limes until my fingers were perfumed and a little raw. Each task was a bead I slid along an imaginary cord to keep my hands busy.
It worked, the way tourniquets worked. The bleeding slowed. The pain didn’t disappear.
I made my way down the path to the main house, the sprawling rambler at the end of the beach that had always been the heart of our family. It was still strange to think of it as my sister Harper and her husband Chase’s place now. Recently returned from extended travels, Mom had made the trade without a second thought, giving her home to their growing family and settling into the quiet of Harper’s old guest cottage behind it.
But we all agreed Sundays were still Mom’s domain. The screen door squeaked—a sound Harper refused to fix because it sounded like home—and the familiar smell of Mom’sropa viejamet me before I was even inside. She stood at the stove, silver-streaked hair up in a clip, wooden spoon in hand. The kitchen smelled like tomatoes and cumin.
“Hey Mom,” I said, kissing her cheek.
“There’s my boy.” She squeezed me, then smacked my forearm lightly. “Beer in the fridge, then set the table.” Her gaze skimmed my face. “You look tired.”
“I own a bar.”
She made a noncommittal noise that meantdon’t get smart with meand turned back to the pot. After opening the fridge, I slid the beer in next to Jules’s chocolate mousse, labeledDo Not Touch or I Will End You. I grinned.
The house filled as always. Harper and Chase with Finn pinging around their legs. Their twins were napping, which made the noise level noticeably less. Eli and Julesbickered about whose turn it was to feed the fish in Finn’s tank. Brenna and Hunter leaned against the table, with baby Colton snoozing like a potato. Ben set a bouquet of grocery-store flowers on the counter and nodded at me.
We were loud and overlapping as we ate, passing plates with the efficiency of a kitchen line. Austin and Iris Holloway, now fully part of the Coleridge chaos, filled their plates with their heads tipped toward each other. It should’ve shifted me back into the groove carved from years of these dinners. Instead, I felt slightly out of place, like I was watching through a window.
Mom waited until plates were cleared and the second pot of coffee poured to slide into the chair next to me. “So Eli tells me Tessa is back in town.”
I set my mug down carefully. “Of course he did.”
“He also tells me you’ve been avoiding the dive shop like it’s a swarm of angry bees.”
