Chapter Two

Perry

Never did I think that the marine archeologist who left a message on my machine last week would be bold enough to show up on my boat.

Clearly, I have too much faith in humanity.

This woman is bold, I'll give her that. Bold enough to think she can walk right onto my boat with her weird clothes and pick up my dog like she knows her. I send Bertie a hard stare.

"Traitor," I mutter under my breath, earning a head tilt.

I force out a strained sigh, lift my hat from my head, and push a hand through my grimy hair. The grease my fingers come away with tells me it's been a couple days since I've had a shower. I lean down and give myself a sniff.

That's offensive. Shower, stat.

For a brief moment, I wonder if the sprightly little woman who just hired me could smell me from where she stood. I shouldn't care. She's the one who took it upon herself to show up practically unannounced, like she knew I'd jump to do her bidding.

Well, she's got another thing coming.

I know her type. Career-driven. Hyper-focused. Bulldoze anyone who stands in her way. Sure, I'll let her pay me the fifteen hundred dollars a week to drive her back and forth to Prater's shipwreck. After all, it's the perfect way to save up for my future shop. But if she thinks I'm cleaning and organizing my fishing stuff for her and her uppity crew, she's sorely mistaken.

My stomach grumbles a complaint, reminding me that I woke up at my usual ungodly hour and had nothing but a Thermos full of black coffee to tide me over. I pat my leg and signal Bertie.

"Come on, girl. Let's go get lunch."

Never one to turn down a meal, my furry companion gets into position and hops back up the steps. I had to reconfigure them to accommodate her unusual gait due to her missing limb, but now that they're shorter and closer together, she manages them like a pro.

The minute the sun hits my eyes, I scoop her up and step onto the dock, then freeze when Little Miss Treasure Hunter approaches me yet again. Turning the opposite way, I ignore her bright pink hair and ridiculous clodhoppers.

"Um, Mr. Ford?" I sense her hurrying along behind me, the continuous clip clomp clip clomp of her shoes against the wooden planks driving me mad. "I was hoping we could maybe grab a light lunch together? You know, to…to iron out the details for the summer?"

Suppressing the urge to roll my eyes, I continue to stalk forward with Bertie. What details do we have to iron out? I run her back and forth to the shipwreck, she pays me. End of story.

I don't know where she gets off coming onto my boat and ordering me around with her big words and fancy job, but I don't have time to entertain her.

I've got a last-minute repair to finish before the guest arrives at the villa my sister Jerica and I rent out, not to mention the ledgers I need to catch up on. Having lunch with this space cadet isn't on today's to-do list. All I have to do is make it to my truck, then I can drive away and forget about this woman until tomorrow.

"Sorry," I say, not even trying to rid my voice of its usual gruffness. "Can't."

Her footsteps quicken, those unbelievably annoying shoes now slapping hard on the pavement behind me. "But Mr. Ford…May I call you Perry, actually?"

That makes me stop.

She was walking so close that she barrels into my back. And now I know how tender her impossibly soft hands feel against my taut back muscles, as well as my skin. I whip around with a low growl.

"No. You may not."

Her wide, blinking green eyes move back and forth between mine as her brows draw together. It's evident I've surprised her. But she can't really think she's going to show up and order me around just because I've agreed to be her water taxi. I stopped taking orders from anyone a long time ago.

She's already gone and insulted my boat's ambiance. If I sat down to lunch with her, who knows what other pointless tasks she might drum up for me to complete? I have less than a zero percent desire to add to my workload.

"Oh," she squeaks before clearing her throat. "Mr. Ford it is, then." Her tight smile tells me my stubbornness is getting to her. I lay it on even thicker.

"Listen, Miss…" I purposely let my gaze snag on the top of her head. "Bright Hair, was it?"

Those raised lips of hers immediately curl down into a frown. "No. It wasn't. It's Brighton ."

I don't even pretend to hear her as I continue. "I don't have time to sit down for a chit chat. I do have a job, though I'm sure fishing isn't a career you'd deem significant, even if it does put food on the table of the locals—"

"Wow!" she chimes in, startling me. Silencing me.

I rear back, staring at her like she's the nut she is.

"You actually do speak more than five words at a time!" Clapping her hands together, she leans forward conspiratorially. "And look at you…using all those big words you claimed you didn't know." A sly grin curves her mouth upward. "You should be proud of yourself."

The heat in my body rises like a wave, threatening to spread into my face. I need to get rid of this self-righteous woman. Now.

"Wow!" I mimic the false sweetness in her tone. "Insulting me and barging onto my privately owned boat. And all in the same hour! You should be very proud of yourself ." With that, I spin on my heel, tucking Bertie closer and running my fingers through her pudgy belly rolls.

I don't need some know-it-all pixie dictating the rest of my day. When I reach my truck, I ignore her constant calls at my back, slip inside, set Bertie in the passenger seat, and turn my truck's stereo all the way up as I drive away.

Witty's Diner has the best shrimp po' boy within a hundred-mile radius, which is why Bertie and I usually grab lunch here. As soon as I set her on her feet inside the door, I'm struck with the familiar scent of fried food.

I take a seat on one of the retro circular stools and knock a knuckle on the counter. Bertie plops on her haunches at my feet, panting as if she ran a marathon instead of being carried inside like a baby.

"If it ain't my favorite fisherman," Fran croons, sauntering toward me with a pot of coffee suspended in one hand.

"If it ain't my favorite waitress." I give her a genuine smile because Fran really is one of my favorite people in this town. One of…I don't know. Five, maybe? I don't socialize much, nor do I want to.

"You and Miss Bert getting the usual, then?" Fran's thick false eyelashes bat over her brown eyes, her red curls spilling out of the bandana tied around her head as she pours me a cup of coffee.

"Yep."

"Be right back, sugar." When she heads back to the kitchen, I swipe up one of the local newspapers next to me. Bertie lets out a soft grunt, signaling that she's given up on waiting for her food and would rather nap. Typical pug.

I just finish reading an article on sea turtles when a feminine throat clears obnoxiously to my right. Of course I ignore it. Can't whoever it is see that I'm busy?

Apparently not because approximately three seconds later, that person clears her throat again. Louder. Then follows it with, "Excuse me, Mr. Ford."

I squeeze my eyes shut, send up a silent prayer for patience, then lower the newspaper far enough to glare at the woman seated on the stool next to me.

"Why are you here?"

Her eyebrows arch as she tilts her head. "What else would I be doing at a diner? I'm having lunch, silly." Her overly saccharine smile is enough for me to crinkle the newspaper under the force of my grip.

I slap it closed and toss it onto the counter. "No. I am having lunch here. Alone."

Miss Brighton's gaze drops to Bertie. "Well, not totally alone. Your little sidekick is with you." Taking in the diner's retro interior, she swivels in a full circle on her stool, narrowly missing my thigh with her clodhoppers . "I'm surprised they let you bring her in here. This place is immaculately kept. Like it was plucked right out of 1940."

I grit my teeth, grinding them back and forth. "She's a service dog. She's allowed everywhere I go."

"Hm," she hums. "Interesting. What kind of service does she provide for you?"

Thankfully, I'm saved from growling a nonsensical response when Fran appears with my po'boy. "Here ya are, sugar." She sets the plate down in front of me, along with Bertie's bacon and eggs, all while aiming a friendly smile at Miss Brighton. "Well, what do we have here? A friend of yours, Perry?"

I shake my head, not bothering to use my voice, and take a giant bite of my sandwich. I don't want anyone thinking I'm with this wild-haired woman. Not only is her hair pink , but she's got these weird little alien-like buns on top of her head that wobble back and forth when she talks.

"I'm Lola Brighton," my new stalker says. "The lead archeologist tasked with excavating the Sirene Dansante ."

Fran's face alights with genuine intrigue. I frown. "That sounds exciting," Fran says, leaning a hip against the counter. "It's nice to meet you, Lola." The two shake hands across the counter while I dutifully pretend to ignore their interaction.

" Mr. Ford and I are new acquaintances," Lola continues. "I think I just hired him to be my water taxi for the next several weeks."

Without even looking, I know Fran's eyes are glued to me. "You think you hired him?" she inquires.

"Well," Lola says with a little laugh. "He did agree to it, but I'm having trouble getting him to talk terms with me."

"We did talk terms," I correct her immediately.

"Did we?" Her voice holds a hint of faux coyness that I instantly hate.

I nod. "I'm organizing my stuff . You're losing those ridiculous shoes." My stomach sours from even thinking about moving anything around on my boat.

"Ah, that's right. We still haven't talked hours or boat safety rules, though…nothing pertaining to the actual investigation and what we'll need from you—"

I whirl toward her. "What you'll need from me?"

She blinks, surprised again at my gruffness. Then a slow, menacing smile lifts her perfectly plush lips. "I'd get into all the details, but I can see that you're very busy. Certainly too busy to have lunch and discuss them with me."

Reluctantly, I raise my gaze to Fran. She's eyeing me with a mixture of disappointment and delight. "Nonsense," Fran says. "Perry has plenty of time to talk terms with you, Miss Brighton." Leaning closer to the newcomer, Fran lowers her voice. "By the way, he grabs lunch here almost every day, in case you need to track him down more often."

With a villainous wink, Fran sends me a big smile before turning back to Lola and taking her order.

"Traitor," I mumble for the second time in one morning.

"Be back in a jiff," Fran announces, leaving the two of us alone.

Bertie starts to stir at my feet, so I lower her plate of food down to her. In seconds, she's inhaling the greasy bacon and snorting with glee, blissfully unaware of my rapidly growing unease.

"Hey, Perry!" someone calls behind me. I turn and find Brody and his friend heading to a table toward the back. I lift a hand in a friendly wave before digging back into my sandwich.

"I take it everyone else in this town gets the privilege of calling you by your first name," Lola says, angling her body into my personal space. "Just not me ." Her strawberry and vanilla-scented hair drifts way too far into my vicinity. I'm genuinely baffled at the way this woman can't take a hint. Or respect personal boundaries.

"Can you not…" I flick a hand in the air between us. " Do that ."

Her brows knit together tightly. "Do what?"

"Invade my personal space. It's…" Annoying? Weird? Unnecessary? I decide on, "Unsettling."

Obviously reading into that one word, the infuriating woman smiles. "I see. I apologize for the intrusion, Mr. Ford." She turns back to the countertop and drums her fingers along the sparkling white Formica. Wait, is she… blushing ?

"Look," I say, needing to remedy her wrong assumptions this second. "You're…" I look her over, unequipped to put a word to whatever she is, then settle for, "Fine. But that's not what I meant. I just don't like people invading my privacy. Or my personal bubble."

Her lips tip upward as her gaze falls to Bertie. "I understand," she says softly.

A pity look. Great . Now she thinks I'm the weird one because I have a service dog and don't want her hanging around me all day like some kind of stray.

"Can we just get this over with?" I ask. I toss my fry onto my plate, suddenly losing my appetite. Who could eat when you've got a pink-haired fairy staring you down and pitying you?

Except when she smiles widely and folds her hands in front of her, I feel as if I made a worse mistake than lying about not having the time to speak with her. There's a twinkle to her, some conniving and formidable force behind her eyes that proves I'm out of my depth.

"I'm so glad you've decided to humor me," she says with a little laugh. A pretentious, uppity sort of laugh that reminds me of Sloane and immediately has my shoulders bunching. "Anyway, I think it's best if we get all the details sorted out now. That way when tomorrow comes, we can get right down to business."

I cock an eyebrow as I glance her over. She blinks and clears her throat before taking a sip of the water Fran set down in front of her. "Yes, well. Let me start by telling you a little about this investigation. It's only exploratory, meaning we won't be dredging up many artifacts for studying or preserving, but rather checking out the wreckage site. The museum I work for received a grant from the state to determine whether or not Prater's shipwreck will be a worthwhile excavation."

I nod, wishing she'd speed through this process.

"But even an investigative trip takes multiple people to make it successful. My team members, Bree and Buzz, will be here tomorrow to aid with the project. Basically, we'll need you to cart us out to the shipwreck during the week. We'll dive below the surface and conduct our investigation, then record our findings. There's a chance we won't need to stay for the full four weeks. In that case, you'd be freed from your commitment early."

She smiles like that's some sort of consolation.

"What about the pay you promised? You said I'd be hired for four weeks." And I expect a full four weeks' worth of pay. Six thousand dollars is nothing to sneeze at, especially when it's going toward covering the costs of my planned startup. With that nice little chunk to add to my savings, I'll be able to open my shop sooner than I expected.

"Oh, well…" Tugging her bottom lip between her teeth, she seems to mull this over. "I think we can pay you for the whole time even if we do end up finishing early. I'd have to double check with the administrator, but since I've already booked you for the next four weeks, I don't see it being a problem."

I nod again, grateful she doesn't see it as an issue even though we haven't signed on any dotted lines yet. As if reading my mind, Miss Brighton whips a folded sheet of paper out of the small fanny pack strapped to her waist.

"Here's a tentative contract. Read it over. If you agree to the terms the museum has drawn up, sign it and bring it back to me tomorrow."

I quickly scan the contract. Not seeing any immediate red flags, I set it on the counter beside me. "Will do."

"Perfect." Her smile widens and somehow…twinkles. I immediately think of her last name— Brighton . It suits her in a weird, almost eerie way.

"If that's all…" I purposely let my voice trail off, then tip my head toward my food.

"Oh." She giggles. "Go ahead and get back to your food. I won't bother you anymore."

I clench my jaw. "I like to eat alone."

She frowns. "But my lunch hasn't come yet."

I glance around the diner. "There are a ton of open seats. That aren't right next to me."

Her eyes narrow as she purses her lips, but she doesn't argue. "All right, Mr. Ford. You win this round." She hops to her feet, then gives Bertie a quick pat before straightening. "But we've got four whole weeks to get to know one another. I have no doubt that by the end of this investigation, we'll be the best of friends."

Her voice rises on the word best and I scoff, unable to help myself. This woman's boldness is astounding. "Sorry to disappoint you, Miss Brighton, but I don't have women friends."

As if to prove that isn't true, Fran steps up with Lola's order. "Are you playing nice, Perry?" She crosses her arms and sends me a scolding look.

"Oh, he's just peachy," Lola croons, giving my forearm a pat. My muscles tighten in response. What is with this woman touching me? "In fact," she continues, "I think we're going to get along swimmingly this summer."

Fran eyes me with amusement. "Glad to hear it. Perry could use a beautiful woman hanging around and shaking his life up a bit." When my glare nearly sends laser beams her way, Fran laughs. "And don't let his surly demeanor put you off. He only pretends he's mad at the world. Really, he's a softie."

"Fran," I warn, steel in my tone.

"Well, I'll leave you two to it, then." Fran tosses another wink my way before sauntering off with a smug expression. Why does everyone seem to want to get on my nerves today?

I shove another bite of sandwich into my mouth and do my best to brush off Fran's meddling. When Miss Brighton doesn't leave, I side-eye her until it must make her uncomfortable. Because she shifts in her seat and picks at the chef salad with her fork.

"So…what's there to do for fun around here?"

I almost groan at the question. But honestly, what's the point? This woman is going to pester me all the live long day no matter what, so I might as well come up with an entertaining answer.

"Cow tipping." I smile to myself, thinking over my and my buddies' antics growing up as I dig back into my sandwich.

"Hm. That sounds…interesting."

I swallow a bite of food, then nod. "It's the thrill of a lifetime."

She bursts out laughing at my dry tone. "Oh, come on. There's got to be more than that to do around here. This is a beach town! It's gorgeous! Do you like to surf?"

I shake my head. "No."

"Jet ski?"

"No."

She sighs loudly. "Why do I get the feeling you're only going to humor me with one- and two-word answers?"

"Because I'm only going to humor you with one- and two-word answers."

"Ha!" She points her bright-red painted fingernail directly at my face. " That was more than two words!"

My eyes roll back into my head almost involuntarily. "If you can't tell, Miss Brighton, I'm just trying to get this little business lunch of ours over with. As soon as possible."

A flicker of something I refuse to wonder about passes across her features for a second before she pastes on that smile of hers. And not for the first time, I wonder if six thousand dollars is worth having to deal with Miss Brighton for the next four weeks.