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"Lobsters don't wave," he says.

"How do you know? Have you ever looked?"

His face scrunches up while he works through the logic of that. Then he points at the next buoy. "What about that one?"

"That one's for the crabs. They're not as friendly."

I carry him around the deck identifying buoys for the next ten minutes. Lobsters, crabs, a grumpy sea bass, an octopus who’s behind on his rent, while Lisa Rourke sits in her chair and looks like she might cry from relief.

Owen's sticky hand is fisted in the strap of my tank top, and his head is on my shoulder. His breathing has gone slow and even by the time we pass the breakwater.

I glance up toward the helm and Aiden is watching me with an expression I’ve never seen on his face. Open and unguarded. There’s a craving in his eyes that I can't name because it disappears the second he catches me looking at him. His jaw resets. His eyes go back to the water. His hand adjusts the throttle by a fraction that changes nothing.

Like it never happened.

Owen stays asleep on my shoulder as we round the point and head back in toward the festival docks. My arm is numb and there's a juice stain on my shirt and I smell like sunscreen. All while feeling like I've been punched in the chest. Because of the thing on his face before he shut it down. I can’t stop picking at it. It was longing. For what? Me, with our child on my hip? It’s something I would give almost anything to have, but I don’t get to want that. It’s bad enough I slept with him without coming clean.

I'm the woman who signed his claim denial. Whatever was on his face, it wasn't meant for me.

The festival fills up fast once the parade's over. Food tents, a cover band murdering classic rock, kids running everywhere. Owen wakes up when we dock, rested and cheerful and completely unwilling to let go of my hand, so I end up walking the festival with a five-year-old attached to me until Dr. Rourke buys him a lobster-shaped balloon and Lisa peels him off me with the kind of gratitude usually reserved for organ donors.

Aiden disappears into a conversation with a boat owner about some dead engine I'll have to schedule. I find a lemonade and a bench and sit in the sun feeling my arm come back to life.

"Vanessa."

Whitmore materializes from the crowd like a man who's been circling. Linen blazer, open collar, sunglasses pushed back into his silver hair. Tan skin unlined in a way that suggests a dermatologist on retainer, and probably a very talented, very discreet, plastic surgeon as well.

"You look lovely. I'd heard you were on the water today. Next time you should join me."

"Mr. Whitmore. How's the boat?"

"She's marvelous. Resting comfortably under her Italian leather."

He sits next to me without being invited, which is very on brand. As far as this man knows, I'm married to the owner of the yard that will be keeping his boat over the winter, and it hasn't slowed his advances down one bit. Whitmore's brand of money doesn't run into obstacles. It runs into scheduling.

"Tell me, how long are you planning to stay at Cole's?"

I open my mouth to answer and his hand lands on the small of my back. Casually confident. The kind of touch that says I know what I'm doing and I've done it before.

"Because I’m in need of a personal assistant. I could use someone with your organizational talents. Better hours, better pay, and nobody throws wrenches at the coffee machine."

"Aiden's never thrown a wrench at the coffee machine."

"Give it time."

I should move away from his hand. It’s making me uncomfortable and he’s being far too familiar, but there’s no subtle way to get his hand off my back. The armrest is on my right and he’s on my left, the only option is to get up or lean all the way forward. Either way he’d be insulted. Personally, I don’t give a damn about his ego, but it may cost Aiden Whitmore’s business if he decides I’m being rude.

More than that, a man of his wealth and stature could do a lot of damage to the business’s reputation if he starts bad-mouthing Cole’s among his cronies. Before I can decide what to do, Aiden is suddenly there, standing in front of the bench holding two beers.

His eyes go from my face to Whitmore's hand on my back and stay there. He doesn't say a word. He doesn't have to. The temperature around us drops about fifteen degrees.

"Cole." Whitmore removes his hand at a speed that suggests self-preservation instincts. "Good to see you. Wonderful parade." Aiden holds one of the beers out to me. I take it. He still hasn't spoken. "Well." Whitmore stands, smoothing his blazer. "Think about what I said, Vanessa. The offer stands."

He retreats into the crowd with more dignity than most men could manage under the weight of that stare. I watch him go and take a long drink of my beer and try very hard not to smile.

"What offer?"

"A job offer. He needs a PA."