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“He’s busy. Anything I can help you with? We’ve got a great deal on Crab right now,” I suggested, knowing good and damn well Preston Willows didn’t give a shit about saving money.

Preston had been born into one of Seattle's wealthiest families. His father owned like half the real estate in South Lake Union, and his mother had sold a pharmaceutical company in the early 2000’s. He didn't have to work, a point he often told me. But he still did something at their family's company, Willows Realty Co. The jury was still out on whatever the hell that was, though.

Really, he was just an entitled menace who people hated, but kept their mouths shut for fear of retribution by his family’s wealth and status.

Unfortunately, I had become his personal project over the last few years, stopping by the shop at least twice a week with the same entitled offer spewing from his mouth—assuming everyone had a price.

If he wasn't gracing me with his presence, then he was likely getting drunk somewhere, or on his yacht, flaunting his wealth to whoever’s friendship he’d bought that day. Winter was finally starting to fade, which meant pretty soon sixty feet of fiberglass and ego would be floating along Elliott Bay.

“A girl like you shouldn't be down here at the docks smelling like fish. You should be out shopping, or getting your nails done, or something.”

“I’m right where I want to be, Mr. Willows, ” I scowled.

His lip curled, and he leaned in closer, but I pulled back just the same. “You know what's fucked up, though? You're actually hot enough to be doing something worthwhile. Could've been an influencer, a model, or shit—even just married well,” He winked at me as his companions chuckled behind him.

My stomach knotted, eyes scanning the door, practically begging someone to come in.

“Instead, you're here, smelling like low tide, wasting that face," he slurred, reaching his hand toward me.

My gaze narrowed as I pushed his hand away, making a sound of repulsion. I’d rather be one of the fish I gutted earlier than ever be associated with someone like him.

Setting the knife down, I picked up the mail and made my way to the side of the counter.

“I’m good. Very good. Now, if you don’t mind, I have a shop to run, and my Dad needs me. Anything else I can do for you, Mr. Willows?” I said, offering an exaggerated smile as I cocked my head to the side, eyes unblinking.

Preston scowled. “Your Dad,” he scoffed. “Henry Graymore is a fool and a failure. Working himself into an early grave, keeping you shackled to this dump, wasting your best years. You should be out partying with me, seeing what life is like outside of all this…” He inched closer. “He won't be around forever, babe, and then who’s going to take care of you?”

I clenched my fists till my knuckles went white, backing away slowly as he and his squad of idiots got closer. I felt like a fish being herded into a fisherman's net.

"I can take care of myself, thanks. And my Dad doesn't need business advice from someone who's never really worked a day in his life," I spat.

I turned toward the door to the back office, but was almost knocked over as Preston rushed past, planting himself in front of the door with his lumbering frame.

My jaw clenched as his eyes narrowed, his smirk as sharp as one of my knives.

Preston grabbed my arm tightly. “Careful, girl. A tongue like that’ll get you in trouble, and there's far better things you could be doing with it.” He smiled wickedly, sending his cronies into bursts of drunken laughter.

Disgusting pig.

My face burned red, blood hot beneath my skin. The mail crunched in my grasp. “Fuck off,” I snarled, eyes burning back into his. I shouldered past him, shoving him against the wall, retreating to the quiet of the backroom.

Preston’s scowl was quickly replaced by a wide grin. “Oh, come on! Smile, it's a joke! Christ,” he yelled behind me in between the laughter.

I didn't look back, but I could still feel his eyes burning into me. Their laughter continued to echo in my mind long after the shop’s bell stopped, the doors slamming behind them.

After the exchange with Preston, I needed to clear my mind and get some air. Against my better judgment, I asked Dad to watch the front register while I went to pick up some supplies from one of the shops down the pier. Over the years, I had befriended many of the shop owners, and prided myself on getting deals on certain things in exchange for a reduced price on some of our fish. I kept that part my own little secret from Dad.

We don't do discounts, Evie, it cheapens the product! His words echoed in my mind. I may not have gone to college, but that didn't mean I wasn't smart. I knew how to haggle with men and women alike.

My boots struck against the planks of the pier, louder than I meant for them to, still fuming at Preston’s bullshit. Brushing the thought away, I approached the shop, the basket of food trays and label-making materials digging into my palms. My gaze snagged on the remnants of scales still shimmering on my hand as I grappled with the doorknob and went inside.

“Three dollars a pound? Ain't no way! Our prices are fair!” Dad’s voice boomed through the shop as I pushed my way past the customers, setting the supplies down behind the register.

Dad stood hunched over behind the counter, haggling with one of our regulars, Mrs. Thompson. She owned a restaurant two blocks over from ours. The reality is that she could most certainly afford the price of our fish, but she seemed to enjoy this ritual of negotiation. However, it was usually me with whom it was with. Henry Graymore? Not on his watch.

“Dad, just give her the usual discount. She’s here all the time.” I smiled and winked at her, already packaging up two freshly cleaned salmon.

Mrs. Thompson patted my cheek. “You’re such a sweet girl, running things here,” she said, nodding towards Dad. “And putting up with this one. Much stronger than I am, girl!”