Page 30 of At First Catch

NOLAN

Ishould not still be looking at my phone.

That is the first thought I have after telling Hadley good night.

The second is worse.

I want her to answer again.

Which is exactly why I set the phone face down on the scarred wooden desk inside the marina office and force myself to study the inspection report spread in front of me like I am a competent adult man with self-control and a newly purchased business that might collapse into Back Bay if I don’t pay attention.

The report is less romantic than Hadley Wright.

Also less dangerous.

Mostly.

Water damage. Electrical concerns. Structural instability in the west dock. Fuel pump upgrades. Storm-mitigation needs. Recommended replacement of pilings along slips eight through fifteen.

The kind of problems I understand.

Problems with clean lines and repair estimates. Problems that can be solved with contractors, permits, budgets, and a hard enough work ethic. I have spent most of my life becoming fluent in things that break in measurable ways.

Rotten wood.

Faulty wiring.

Cracked concrete.

Failed drainage.

People are harder.

Hadley is impossible.

Outside the office windows, the marina settles into night in slow, weathered breaths. The last of the sunset has bled out over Back Bay, leaving the water dark and glossy beneath a scatter of dock lights that flicker more than they should. Somewhere near the bait shop, loose metal taps in the wind. A boat shifts in its slip, rope creaking against a cleat, while the bay laps against old pilings with a steady patience I envy.

This place should not feel peaceful.

It is a disaster.

A beautiful disaster, maybe, but still a disaster.

Half the dock boards need replacing, the old restaurant building smells like mildew, and the office ceiling has a leak someone attempted to fix with duct tape.

Yet sitting here, surrounded by salt-stained windows and outdated maps pinned crookedly to the wall, I reach for the inspection report again. Twenty minutes pass before I realize I haven’t looked at my phone once.

I drag a hand over my jaw and stare at the face-down phone as if it personally wronged me.

For the record, I wasn’t warning you away from the marina.

I’m warning myself.

There are moments in a man’s life when he should keep his mouth shut. Apparently, I have decided to stop recognizing those moments entirely.

The phone buzzes once. My entire body reacts before my brain does.

Pathetic.