Chapter One

Lola

Space buns: Check.

My lucky fishnets with the hole in the knee: Double check.

Cute platform, skid-proof wedges, perfect for traversing a boat deck: Triple check.

Everything I need for this big day is ready. I take one last look at my face in the rearview mirror and flick a stray piece of black mascara off my cheek.

"You can do this, Lola. You were born for this."

The affirmation settles deep in my bones as I take my first breath of the salty South Carolina air. I finally landed the promotion I've been dreaming of for the past ten years, despite being told by a certain someone that it may never happen, and today marks the beginning of what I hope is a long and fulfilling career as a project director.

Marine archeology has always been my first love, and I've truly enjoyed working as an investigator—but leading a team of excavators and overseeing all the research myself? It's a total dream come true.

Even if Horrible Hal doubts my abilities…

I sigh and step out of my vehicle, slamming the car door a little too hard. I wince at the way the sound punctures the picturesque seaside setting, complete with seagulls softly cawing overhead.

There's so much to take in, I can't help but make a full turn, absorbing it all.

The pristine beach is only a few paces away, perfect aquamarine waves spilling onto its glistening sandy shore. Pastel-dressed patrons meander in and out of the colorful shops scattered along the nearby boardwalk. Faint music croons from somewhere, and the entire scene has a summer vibe that I already know I'll find addicting, even with the way sweat pebbles along my skin thanks to the humidity.

South Carolina feels like a world away from Rhode Island, where I've lived for the past four years. Excitement buzzes down my spine as I take a few measured steps toward the dock that leads into the marina.

Boats of all sizes line the way, and I smile at the diversity among them. Some have brightly colored sails, while others are pure white, and a few look as if they were created strictly for party business.

Reaching into my neon fanny pack, I pull out the half-torn piece of paper I scribbled my water taxi's name on: The Dainty Dutch-ess: Captain Perry Ford. Another smile creeps to my face. As soon as I wrote down the boat's name, anticipation began building inside me.

What will the Dainty Dutch-ess look like? A small little schooner, maybe, with white frilly sails? Maybe it's an oxymoron and the boat is actually huge. Or perhaps my dream job also comes with my dream ride–a pink boat to match my hair.

I'm lost to my daydreams when eighties rock music drowns out the soft melody that followed me from the boardwalk. Up ahead, the source of the music comes into view—an older model fishing boat with a scratched and faded red stripe painted along the side.

My feet stop all on their own when the worn turquoise title with the missing ch glares back at me from the side of the boat. The Dainty Dut-ess . A burst of laughter slips out, and I bring a hand to my mouth.

Despite its weathered look, the vessel bobs happily, tied to the dock like it is. My gaze snags on the little black pirate flag that waves from back of the boat, its tattered edges flapping wildly in the breeze.

"Well, I guess this is it." I flatten a hand against my stomach to quell a sudden bout of nerves as I clear my throat. "Um. Excuse me. Mr. Ford?"

No response. Which doesn't totally surprise me, given how loud his music is. I take a few steps forward, leaning toward the boat. "Mr. Ford?" I call, hoping this one does it.

While today is technically my first day on the job, it's going to be jam-packed with meeting my water taxi driver, setting up house in the villa I'll be renting, and making sure my small team is all set and ready to go for the next several weeks. There's a lot to do and not a lot of time to do it in, so this little meet-and-greet needs to go quickly and smoothly.

When there's still no response, I head down the gangway and prepare to board. I hate to intrude, I really do, but Mr. Ford and I will soon be besties anyway. There hasn't been a captain I haven't been able to charm yet. Even Mac, the older gentleman with a perpetual frown from my last investigation, couldn't resist my sunshine smile. His words, not mine. We even got to the place where we could banter back and forth and his wife, Cecily, invited me over for dinner regularly. So I have no doubt Mr. Ford and I will get along great, and he'll forgive this momentary breach in propriety.

Cages, flat weights, ropes, and haphazardly strewn multi-colored tubs pepper the back of the boat, along with what looks like a huge roll of netting. Mud smears what used to be white fiberglass, and the smell of fish hits me like a slap to the face. I recoil on instinct.

One look at my cute new platform wedges makes me regret my choice of footwear. Guess this won't be exactly like the last investigation after all.

"Um. Hello?" I venture again, this time leaning over the side of the boat with one hand on the railing. I can't hear any movement over the blaring music, not even when I peer into the black nothingness that is the interior cab.

Then a tan, round, furry face pops directly through the opening.

"Oh!" I squeal, startled. "Well, aren't you adorable!"

Salivating and panting, the cutest little pug I ever did see hobbles up the steps and hops around to my side of the boat. The moment he plops down onto his rear, I notice one of his front legs is missing. "Aw, you poor thing. Aren't you the sweetest!"

Not close enough to touch the precious bundle, I instantly forget ruining my cute sandals and step onto the boat. He snuggles into my hand the moment I make contact, eliciting my giggle.

"You are just precious. Can I take you home?"

His tiny paws tap a happy rhythm, nails clicking along the fiberglass as he pants up at me with what can only be described as an enamored smile. I scoop the little guy up to find that he is actually a little gal .

The shiny, bone-shaped tag attached to the light blue collar around the dog's neck reads Bertie .

"Aw, you're a girly girl, just like me, aren't you, Bertie?" Helpless to do anything else, I nuzzle my face against Bertie's squishy fat neck rolls. "You and me are going to be best friends."

"Do you make it a habit of kidnapping people's dogs, miss?"

I squeak in surprise at the booming masculine voice. My body whirls toward the cabin's opening, and I almost drop Bertie in the process. A dark figure with a baseball cap over what appears to be scruffy auburn hair looms in the cabin's shadows. The broad look of the man tells me he's lumberjack sized.

"Oh. Um. I'm sorry." I bite my lip as embarrassment washes over me.

The pug wriggles wildly until I set her down, then she tromps her way toward the man I can only assume is her owner.

I clear my throat and raise my voice over the music he clearly refuses to turn down. "I was just looking for Mr. Ford." I paste on a wide smile and take a tentative step forward. "I'm Lola Brighton. The maritime archeologist?"

His head rears back a bit before he scratches the side of his bearded jaw. Finally, he turns down the music just before he reaches forward with his large hands and picks up the pug. Then he's climbing up the steps into the back of the boat, coming directly for me.

Much to my dismay, I was incorrect earlier. He's not lumberjack sized. He's giant sized. And judging by the scowl he wears, along with his baseball cap printed with the words, "Bite Me," I'm going to guess he's not all that friendly.

Suddenly I'm reminded of all those murder documentaries Bree and I like to binge on the weekends. Will this be where I meet my ultimate demise? Possibly.

Yet somehow the happy little pug cradled in the crook of the man's arm makes me hope for the best. Which must be why I reach a hand toward him and say, "It's so nice to meet you. You must be Mr. Ford."

The man blinks his dark blue eyes before his gaze lowers and rests on my outstretched hand. My now trembling outstretched hand. If not for the way his thumb grazes along Bertie's fur, I might think he was a stone-cold statue.

"Um," I hedge with a swallow. "I'm sorry for barging in on you like this. But I called and left a message on your answering machine a week ago. Told you I'd be arriving today and…"

The man's jaw works slightly as his lips purse together. Almost like he's chewing the inside of his cheek. Like he's annoyed or mad and just waiting for me to stop talking.

I slowly retract my hand. "You…didn't get my message."

The bare tilt of his head and piercing gaze sends a chill along my spine. "I did."

"Oh." I smile. "Well, good. Then you already know why I'm here."

His jaw works again as his eyes rake over my entire person. Never have I wanted to crawl into a dark hole and hide more than I do right now. But little does he know, I'm not easily cowed, no matter how intimidated I might be.

"I know why you're here," he finally says.

Good grief. Are repeating phrases and five-word sentences all this guy is good for?

"Well," I venture once again. "Are you amenable to being my water taxi for the duration of my investigation?"

"Amenable?" Both eyebrows raise as he assesses me.

"You know… amenable . Open, willing…flexible." I smile, despite the queasiness this interaction has sparked. Hal assured me the other day that he contacted the local visitor's bureau to secure this guy and his boat ahead of time. Yet, Mr. Ford is staring at me like he knows, but also doesn't know, why I'm here.

His eyes narrow for a split second before his lips twitch into a smile that can only be described as condescending. "I apologize, Miss Brighton, but I'm a simple Southern fisherman. You'll have to skip the big words while on my boat. How about you explain it to me like you might Bertie here."

Heat rushes to my face. The hard emphasis he puts on the word my paired with his sarcastic tone has me swallowing yet again.

"Ah, I just meant to say…are you…okay with me hiring you?" I squeeze my hands into fists, then splay my fingers over and over. It's a nervous habit, one I haven't been able to break since childhood, not even with all the letters behind my name. "I was told by my boss that you were willing and available for the job."

He huffs. "Who's your boss?"

"Hal Marshowitz."

His eyes narrow again. "Never heard of him. All I got was your vague message on my answering machine."

I want to stomp my feet in irritation, but I don't. Of course Mr. Ford hasn't heard of Hal. This little misunderstanding goes right along with all the other miniscule ways I've suspected that Hal has tried to undermine my reputation at work. Later tonight, once I'm settled in, we will definitely have words.

"I apologize for the mix up, Mr. Ford. But I assure you that this is all very legit, and I am looking to hire you. You can even contact my boss if you're unsure." Hopefully Hal will at least acknowledge that he dropped the ball here.

Again, the man eyes me, this time with one dark eyebrow raised high. "You don't look like a marine archeologist."

I resist the urge to ask what exactly he thinks a marine archeologist should look like and instead reach into my fanny pack for my card. "Here are my credentials. Like I said, if you don't believe me, you can call my director. Name's on the back."

I offer him a tight-lipped smile as his hand closes around the card and brushes against mine unexpectedly. I settle my hand in my back pocket and try to ignore the flash of warmth that emanated from his fingertips.

"Hm," he half hums, half grunts before handing back the card. "Why me?"

If he'd listened to the voicemail, he'd know why.

"Because you're a commercially licensed captain with a boat used for commercial purposes," I say. "We don't hire private individuals to ferry us back and forth to our work sites for insurance reasons." I don't need to tell him that he's the only commercially licensed captain in this small coastal town. No doubt he's already aware.

My gaze falls to little Bertie, whose eyes are lazily closing as we speak.

"How much?" he asks with a lift of his chin.

"Fifteen hundred a week."

His eyes widen almost imperceptibly as he gives me a slow nod. "All right." With that, he turns and ducks back down into the lower cabin of the boat.

"Wait!" I say in a voice that borders on panicked.

He stops and faces me.

"That's it? Just…all right?"

Again, he nods. "Yep. You hired me. See you tomorrow."

My mouth pops open. "But…but…" I look around at the array of unkempt fishing gear that takes up most of the boat's space. "What about our terms?"

He pokes his head back up through the opening, eyes narrowed. "What terms ?"

"Well," I say, planting my hands on my hips. "If I'm hiring you, I think we should come to some sort of agreement about how this will go for the next several weeks." I motion to some of the junk scattered around me. "It's going to be hard for my crew and me to fit on here with all our gear if it's cluttered up with all your fishing…stuff."

The word junk was on the tip of my tongue, but I practically bit it down to keep it from leaping into the air between us.

Yet the look Mr. Ford gives me says he heard the unspoken word anyway.

"My fishing stuff stays," he says with an unforgiving tone. "It's how I make a living."

I splay my hands and take a step toward him. "I totally get that. I do. But maybe you could…" I glance over my shoulder at the bins that are thrown on top of each other. "Organize a bit? Maybe neatly stack the bins. Wipe off some of this mud?"

I tap my toe against a particularly dirty spot, and my perfect platform shoe comes away speckled with dried mud. Lovely.

Mr. Ford doesn't miss a beat, tracking the movement with his eerily bright gaze. "If I have to organize, then you can't wear those shoes."

I glance down at my impeccably professional choice in footwear. "But these are non-skid shoes. Perfect for a boat."

He tilts his head the exact same way he did earlier and stares at me. "And my fishing stuff is also perfect for a boat ."

I press my eyelids closed and pray for patience. This man is even grumpier than Mac. His testy behavior is threatening my hope that we'll someday be buddies.

"Okay," I say with a bright smile. "You've got a deal."

I once again hold out my hand for him to shake, hoping this time he'll take it. With a reluctant grunt, he reaches forward, and I shake his giant hand. The moment our skin touches, two things happen at once. First, I realize how deliciously his calloused palm scrapes against mine. And second, I'm hyper aware of the fact that I should never ever touch Mr. Perry Ford again.

Because the heat and sparks his touch creates make me way too woozy for standing aboard a vessel made for water. Not to mention everything about him is like a big fat warning sign. Case in point: sparks do not equal safe.