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“At least all the guest rooms have fresh flowers, I guess.”
At least I no longer have a functioning heart to worry about.
“See you tomorrow, Jenn,” Marcos says with a smile.
The next day, when the doorbell rings before check-in, I just assume it’s more flowers. But when I open the door, it’s not Marcos the flower guy.
A man I haven’t seen before shoves a bulky tablet in my face. “Hi, need you to sign for this, ma’am.”
I blink. “This?”
He hooks his thumb over his shoulder and points behind him. There’s a large trailer parked in my driveway. On it, a shiny new boat in Bee Harbor colors with my logo painted on the side.
I go down leaning against the wall for support, seriously convinced I’ll black out for a hot second.
“No way. No flipping way. This—this is a mistake.”
He looks from the boat to the house and taps his tablet. “Right address. Right recipient. Seems like a pretty specific custom order. Don’t tell me I screwed up?”
“But I-I didn’t order a boat. I think I’d remember that.”
“Well, somebody did, and I just need a signature for delivery. I’m not here to take your money. It’s already paid in full.”
“...but I don’t have anywhere to keep it.”
“I was told there’s a crew restoring an old boathouse. I’m just supposed to leave it in the driveway and come move it once the work is complete.” He smiles.
“I’m sorry... did you say boathouse?”
He nods.
I didn’t even know I had a boathouse.
Then I remember the dilapidated structure near the beach.
Grandpa used to joke he kept his pirate treasure in there, and it looked like an accident waiting to happen. It’s been rotting and falling in my whole life, and now it’s so misshapen I never knew what it was actually supposed to be.
I’d planned on tearing it down and replacing it with a floating gazebo dock for weddings, maybe in the next summer or two if things go well.
“I-I can’t pay a crew.”
Delivery man shrugs. “Don’t know anything about that, I’m afraid. I just need a signature so I can get to my next stop.”
A black car pulls up behind the trailer with the boat and a man in a suit steps out.
I frown. “Now what?”
“No clue. Will you sign this or not?”
I shake my head. “No. This has something to do with my crazy ex-boyfriend.”
Delivery man’s brows dart up. “Whew. My crazy ex set my clothes on fire in front of my ma’s house. If I ever get the kinda crazy that randomly sends boats and work crews to refurbish old buildings, I’ll put a ring on that ASAP.”
“Can you just go? I’m sorry, I can’t keep this boat. I don’t even know what to do with it.”
“No offense, but it sounds like the crazy ex took care of that with the whole boathouse repair thing.”
“Who hired you, anyway?”
“Says here...” He looks at the name on his tablet. “Cromwell-Narada?”
“Ugh. I knew it,” I sigh out.
His jaw drops. “Hold up. Your crazy ex is Miles Cromwell?”
I don’t answer.
The man in the suit comes up the stairs to the front porch now. “Hi, Miss Landers. I seem to have caught you at a busy time, but I’m supposed to explain the account that’s been set up for you. I’m happy to wait if you’ll have a minute in the next hour.”
I blink. “Account? What account?”
Seriously.
What the hell is going on?
“I should explain. I run a business management service. Clients set up an account with my firm, and then I take care of their business needs. The account set up for you was specifically intended for up to three tour guides with a boating license—”
Okay.
Breathe.
At least now I know what I’m supposed to do with the boat.
“I’m sorry you had to come all this way. I don’t want the account,” I say, trying not to snap.
“Oh, are you certain? I made it clear to the man I talked to that if you changed your mind after signing the contract and funding the account, you’d lose ten percent to the cancellation fee.”
He’s too good at making everything so hard.
“Whatever your terms are, I didn’t set up the account.”
“Forgive me, but why would someone else set up an account for your business?”
“Crazy ex-boyfriend. Go figure,” the delivery guy says, swirling a finger in a circle next to his head.
Suit guy blinks in confusion.
“Just take the boat back. I have to go get a crew off my land,” I say before I turn and sprint off toward the pickup that’s pulling up on the side of the road.
An entire week passes after that without any new fanfare.
No more truckloads of flowers, no random boats or work crews, no freaking messenger penguins like Pippa had with Brock—though that would’ve been adorable.
It’s almost too quiet.
I think he’s beginning to get it through his head.
