Page 4 of Rum Sips and Salty Lips

I know what my reputation is around town. I give back to my community as much as possible. I organize beach cleanups every month and helped plan last year’s Sea Turtle Rescue 5K. I’ve worked hard for the image I have.

It’s real too. I care deeply about the environment and built my business around sustainability. But one misstep, no matter how small, can destroy everything I’ve built. One bad review can go viral. One out-of-context quote can blow up. People who don’t know me always judge. My friends are amazing, but I constantly wonder how long they’ll stick around.

When we get to the planned spot, both Orion and Nathan jump into action to lower the sails and drop the anchor. I tuck my feet under me to make myself as small as possible.

“You’re fine,” Orion says as he brushes past me.

“I don’t want to get in your way.”

“Trust me, you could never be in my way.” He winks. My insides shouldn’t quiver at his casual flirting. He does this with every guest, I’m sure. It earns him better tips. I don’t mean anything to him.

I wish I did. Even for a night.

They inflate the paddleboards and I pass on Nathan’s tour of the mangrove forest. “I did a lot of sun salutations this morning,” I tell him and Orion. It’s not a lie but it’s not the reason I’m staying behind.

The waves rock Haley, and she kneels to maintain her balance. I also notice the way Orion watches her like a hawk, worried he’ll need to jump in for a rescue. But Haley finds enough stability to paddle after Nathan. I wave goodbye, but they’re already focused on what’s ahead of them.

It feels sudden, the way they’re gone. I’m left with Orion, the boat, and not another soul in sight. I sit on the stern, dangling my feet in the water.

“Mind if I join you?” he asks, as a formality.

I’m next to a bowl of shrimp ceviche. I’d told him he could help himself to anything we brought. I always order extra rather than risk running out. So far, he hasn’t taken me up on the offer.

“This is a nice perk you’ve given them,” he comments, eating a cracker from the plate set between us.

I shrug. “They’ve worked really hard to get us where we are.”

“You founded the company, right? You must have worked hard too,” he says.

My skin prickles. I know what he’s getting at because I’ve seen him watching. Not just me, everyone. He notices I’ve barely had a sip of alcohol and held back from the gourmet snacks, letting everyone else have their first pick. I take a bite from the tray, savoring the way Haley creates the perfect blend of seafood, citrus, and avocado.

I’ve worked hard. The company is my brainchild. My ex would tell me since the risk was mine, the reward should be mine as well. But I got the startup cash from my father, or rather his investment firm, the Webb Group. I built on what I was given. It doesn’t feel earned. I’m not a rags-to-riches or a bootstraps story.

“It’s just nice to be away for the day,” I muse.

“What all does your company do?” he asks.

I’m not insulted he hasn’t heard of Nebula Athletics. We’re incredibly successful, but only in certain circles. I’m not sure there’s much overlap between yoga and sailing.

“We primarily make yoga clothes and athleisure with a heavy focus on sustainability and fair labor practices.” He nods along, like he agrees with my message. I’m a businessperson first, even though I also have years of yoga practice and as a yoga teacher. I’ve given this elevator pitch to enough people to know if they’re waiting to ask about my profit margins.

But Orion looks genuinely interested.

“I also own a yoga studio under the brand in town. We stream classes online so that more people have access to movement.”

“That all sounds great,” he says. “Do you teach too?”

“I do. Started in college.” He nods but doesn’t respond. Anyway, I don’t want to talk about me. “How long have you been sailing?” I ask. I’m curious about him. I saw the way he lit up when I asked about the Mediterranean. He has to be new to Wendell Beach, otherwise we would have crossed paths. It’s a small town, and I’ve been a year-round resident for seven years. We don’t have a large permanent population, relying on tourists and seasonal residents. I doubt this man, who is constantly looking at the horizon, would stay in one place long.

“I’ve been sailing since I was a kid. I grew up in Boston. Bought my first boat at eighteen.” He gestures with his hand. “Now I have a fleet there and a fleet here.”

A few pieces fall into place. I hadn’t heard of Lost Craft Charters until Alex suggested I use them. The office informed me they’d been bought recently, and the name changed. I was assured they are locally owned. That’s important to me.

“You own the charter company?”

“I do. And its sister company in Boston.”

“How long have you lived here?” I should have seen him around.

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